


Mind's End

by plaidoctor



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassination, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fingering, Ghost Sex, John Wick Vibes, Kill Bill vibes, Murder Mystery, No beta just like Cyberpunk 2077, Post-Game(s), Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaidoctor/pseuds/plaidoctor
Summary: After V manages to stabilize Johnny Silverhand’s engram, becoming separate entities sharing the same body, the pair collaborate to catch a serial killer known colloquially as Chrysanthemum.(Post game murder-mystery with a large helping of romance).
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand & Female V, Johnny Silverhand/Female V, Johnny Silverhand/V
Comments: 105
Kudos: 245





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following story contains spoilers for the main quest, as well as Johnny Silverhand's personal questline. It also contains heavy use of violence, swearing, and sexual themes.  
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AI generated theme song: https://creators.aiva.ai/publicPlayer?c=5fddeac125bcdf001a7aea41  
> Mood board: https://www.pinterest.com/vaguemystic/minds-end/

When I was a child roaming the streets of a rural Nevada neighborhood, scavenging the sand-pillaged houses, I came across a nomad.

He was one of those middle-aged, perpetually sun-burned, battle-hardened scouts—protectors of a clan’s caravan as it crossed the sea of nothing. He stood from the wreckage he was searching through, turned, his loose ashen hair whipping in the wind, and raised a Kang Tao pistol at me.

“Back off, or I’ll turn you inside-out,” he said, snarling until I could see his yellowing teeth.

My twelve-year old brain couldn’t come up with imagery to match his threat. I’d already killed people over supplies or territory, but I’d never murdered someone in a way that would make illegal braindance connoisseurs drool. It was always a bullet to the head, a carefully calculated stab in the chest. Never what he was proposing.

It’s almost funny how it took sixteen years for me to realize how it would feel like.

It’s the sort of pain that shatters you, makes you forget your own name, what you stood for, what you lived for. It’s the pain you can feel tearing your soul apart. Your identity. Your everything.

One minute I am Valerie Jeannin, a Ronin turned thief turned disaster. The other I am Robert Linder, a war veteran turned rockerboy turned ghost. There’s no up, and no down. No yesterday, and no tomorrow. Just an endless today that lingers all around like curdled fog.

The surgical bed of Viktor’s clinic has been drenched with sweat and other questionable fluids hours ago. There’s simply too much of it to wipe, and so Viktor mostly gave up. Every time the feeders administered a dose of dextrose solution into my veins, I’d soon sweat it out until my lips cracked. Every time Viktor tried to give me liquid acetaminophen, I’d throw it up. I can hear my own screaming, broken and coarse and distant, but I can’t stop it. My mouth just won’t close, my vocal chords just won’t stop vibrating.

My cries turn coherent for a few moments. “Do something!” I whimper. And a blurry Viktor appears above me.

He checks whether I’ve accidentally pulled my personal link from the jack, and the cannula, then he pats my shoulder and moves out of focus.

The pain knocks me out for some time, then I wake up and convulse once more.

I don’t know how many days it’s been. There is no clock where I keep finding myself in. There’s no calender. There’s no barely-sentient AI assistant.

There’s only us.

Him and I.

Our psyches, our memories, intertwined. Not too much of him, not too little of me. A meticulous balance. A dash of his arrogance, a sprinkle of my sorrow, a dollop of his charm, a lick of my determination. Together. He sees my memories and I see his. Bare. He knows me to the bone, I know him to the quick. Everything he’s ever fought for, everything I’ve ever felt. Melding. He’s in the passenger’s seat and I’m driving, but he sometimes slips his foot over and pushes down on my own, and we shoot forward at his pace. Fusing.

I walk through the valley I was dropped in and I hear him in the distance. “Hold on. Never stop fighting. Never. Never.”

It takes the remainder of my soul, but I comply. I clutch onto life and force my heartline into hills. Breathe in, breathe out. Stop screaming. However it goes, it’ll be over soon.

* * *

I open my eyes and they stay open. My fingers glitch and jitter as I raise them to my forehead to wipe the coat of sweat. The 3rd generation plastic feels hot against my skin, and I realize I’m cold. I try to push myself up, but I slip on the bed of sweat. Cringing, I open my mouth.

“Viktor…” my voice sounds different, deeper, rougher. As if someone tried to heal my vocal chords, but didn’t completely succeed.

The ripperdoc looks away from his TV and finds me. He pushes to a stand immediately and rushes to my side, already checking vitals and pressing buttons.

“Hey, V,” he says. “How are we doing?”

“Pain…”

“I know. It’ll go away in a few hours.”

“Where’s…?” I find myself asking, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.

Viktor pauses. “Where’s what?”

Johnny, my mind supplies. “Where is… he… Silver…”

“Your construct? It’s gonna take him a while to adjust, same to you. For now, save your strength and wait out the pain,” he rummages through the supplies spread on the medical cart, pulls out an air-hypo, and plunges it in the flesh of my arm. “I’m giving you something to help you rest, since this is all I can do for the pain.”

As the liquid seeps into my veins, my lids grow heavy again. Instinctively, I try to keep them open as if closing them means certain death, or a one-way ticket back to that thorny valley. 

But Viktor pats my arm and moves my hair from between my eyelashes, “Don’t worry, you’ll be as good as new in no time.”

And so I let go.

* * *

The next time I wake up, I don’t find the pain that’s been eating at me like an alligator with a fresh carcass. My 4th generation Kiroshi implants adjust and the blur subsides, rendering the clinic in glorious clarity and brooding color. I flex my Militech fingers, my Arasaka toes. I silently push off the bed and place my feet on the cold ground. The bed creaks as I stand and Viktor turns to look at me.

This time, he stays in his chair, assessing me from afar. “Lookin’ good, V,” he smiles to himself, proud of his handiwork. “Looks like you’re out of the woods.”

“Am I?” I ask, looking at myself. I’m wearing a drenched, off-white hospital gown stuck to my skin.

“Looks like it. Checked your vitals earlier, you’re gonna be fine.”

“How long has it been?” I ask as I scratch my temple, where the relic is still slotted. Permanently, I realize with a pang.

“Thirteen days, give or take.”

I can’t muster enough energy to be surprised.

Huffing, I walk closer and clasp my hands together. “Viktor…”

“I know what you’re gonna say, V,” he rests his elbow on the cluttered table, between secondhand cyberware he was tuning. “You’re welcome.”

“Words can’t explain…”

“Let your eddies explain,” he says, chuckling. “I’m just kidding. It’s enough that we managed to do it. One for the medical journals.”

I scowl. “Are you really going to tell your ripper friends what happened here?”

Viktor gives me a disappointed look. “Of course not. I don’t reveal trade secrets. I’m the trailblazer and that’s how it’s gonna stay.”

The sweat is slowly evaporating, cooling me, and I shiver.

Viktor notices this, and points to a door at the end of his clinic, hidden behind a plastic curtain. “Bathroom’s small, but there’s a shower. I put your things in there just in case.”

I smile gratefully. “Thanks, Vik. You’re literally a lifesaver.”

He waves dismissively and looks back at his game.

* * *

I close the door behind me and quickly rid myself of the gown, letting it drop to the tiles. As I wait for the water to warm, I look through the cardboard box in the corner, finding my undies, armored jumpsuit, combat boots, bullet necklace, and Johnny’s Malorian Arms 3516. 

My coal-black, neurotoxin-coated Arasaka katana is resting against the dewy wall in its sheath, and I touch the hilt instinctively, appreciating how the paint is scratched and somewhat faded, an imprint of my palm after years of constant use. Some day, refurbishing it won’t work, and I would have to retire it. But that day is not today.

I hop into the shower and let the grime of who-knows-how-long wash away. I close my eyes against the water and run a system diagnosis command. The red bar fills up in my mind, disappears, and all systems nominal appears instead. No relic malfunction. Refreshing. It must’ve worked.

Holy shit, it worked. I run my fingers through my hair as it finally hits me like a rocket—Viktor fucking did it.

Mind you, I accomplished a decent chunk of what was needed. I had to break into Arasaka tower with only my weapons, Johnny, and Rogue at my side, and we sliced through everyone and everything until we got to the top, where a chip containing a beta-stage blueprint was kept in storage. Many calls and favors later, I got enough supplies for Viktor to synthesize the first agonizing injection, which he nicknamed Softener, and the maintenance dosages, Apple, which I’d have to take for the rest of my life.

_V…_

My eyes snap open and I look behind me.

Nothing.

I must be imagining things. My memories are still scrambled in my head, raw, easy to access and relive as if they’re fresh. I’m doing an alright job of blocking the most painful ones from resurfacing, but the more inconsequential ones keep popping up like springs.

_Flatline three of them, no more. I’m trying to send a message, not to send them biting my ass._

_You know I still want us together, right?_

_Your implants must be worth an assload of eddies, eddies I’m gonna put in my pocket._

_Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s gotten you so blue?_

I shake my head as if to flick the voices and visuals off of me.

I finish washing and slowly dress. I strap my holsters and make sure my implants are working fine, then I open the door.

When I stand before Vik, squeaky clean and waiting, he stops fiddling with his earring and lifts a nondescript box filled with neatly-lined autoinjectors.

He hands it to me. “Remember, one injection per day. If you miss a dose, wait till the next day, but don’t wait more than three. Come back for more when you have four or three left, just in case.”

I nod and take the cardboard box, cradling it against my chest. “Anything else?”

“Take care of yourself,” he gives me a once-over. “And don’t forget to visit ol’ Vik when you get the chance, yeah?”

“You got it.”

I give him a grateful nod and head out.

* * *

I take the stairs to the graffiti-consumed alley that connects the clinic to Misty’s Esoterica. I’m almost at the back door, but something shifts in my vision, in the corner of the messy alley beneath a system of smoking AC units with thick, tangled wires.

I let go of the door’s handle and turn.

He’s kneeling on the dusty concrete, back turned to me, between discarded cans and crumbled newspapers.

His silver arm is glinting in the streetlight as he gently pets the back of a grayish, purring cat, the same cat that’s been stalking me ever since I woke up with him by my side. The same cat Takemura called a Bakeneko so many days ago.

“Johnny…” I say out loud, ignoring the questioning gaze of two homeless women huddling under a frayed tarp.

His hand freezes, and he stands.

He slowly turns, and I look at him.

His hair is as raven and smooth as ever, and is swept back over a black shirt bearing Samurai’s logo, the grimy tactical vest nowhere to be seen. Though he’s still wearing his too-tight leather pants, combat boots, multitude of rings, and obnoxious rocker belt.

I suddenly realize that his reflective aviators are off. He’s staring at me with a pair of honey-brown eyes, a color he didn’t allow many people to see, as I’ve witnessed in his memories.

“Johnny,” I say again, partly in disbelief.

“V,” his features are soft as he studies me. He lets a smile spread on his face, another secret reserved just for me. “We made it.”

“Johnny,” I say once more, fingers trembling as I itch to do something, anything, to show how happy I am that we’re safe at last. That he’s no longer eating away at my neurons, and I’m no longer trying to delay the inevitable by swallowing one dizzying pill after the next. We’re safe. We’re together.

I return his smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart (by yours truly): https://i.imgur.com/NDhCVZS.png  
> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_naArkkHMMs

I take the back door into Misty’s Esoterica and I breathe in, tasting a mixture of vanilla, sage, ozone, and choo.

The woman in question stops lighting the shop’s cinnamon-scented candles once she sees me. “V! You’re alright!”

I shrug. Guess so.

She blows on the fire burning at the tip of the wooden stick, discards it, and rushes to give me a hug. I almost topple, but I grasp the metal column beside me for support. I close my eye when her wild hair starts to prickle it.

She leans back to take a good look at me. “Oh, V…” she visibly suppresses a choked whimper. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“So am I,” I say numbly.

“How’s the…” she taps her temple twice. “Your…”

As if on cue, a smirking Johnny flickers into view behind her, leaning against a counter filled with knick-knacks and vases. Misty follows my gaze, finds nothing, and turns back to me.

“Right, well… I’ll assume you’re both doing well.”

I nod, eyes still on Silverhand.

“Great!” she pinches my cheek, then frowns. “Woulda been devastated if something happened. You’re a good friend, and you’re one of the last people I know that also knew…”

I take her hands in my own. “Wherever Jackie is, I’m sure he misses you. Immensely.”

She nods, forcing on a smile. “Oh, look at me, being all selfish-like. I’m glad you’re okay, V.”

I nod and squeeze her hands.

She stares into space for a moment. “You know, I made a spread for you every day to see how you were doing. A couple readings scared me, but it looks like I was wrong.”

“Not your fault,” I say, pulling the loose fabric of her sweater higher on her shoulder. “I felt dead, believe me.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I’m just glad it’s over…”

Misty puts a digit on her lip, thinking. “I think a reading’s in order.”

“Right now?”

She pulls me by the hand to the counter. “No better time, I can feel your aura like never before.”

Whatever that means.

She moves behind it and picks up the gold-and-black deck, a gift from Jackie. 

Shuffling, she smiles at me. “I want you to think of how you’re feeling right this moment. Let the past go, let the future happen when it wants to, and embrace the present.”

I sigh and obey, purging the memory of red-hot pain from my mind, if only for a moment.

“Focus,” she says as she finishes shuffling.

I focus on my returning strength, on how lucky I am, on the presence behind me burning holes through my back.

Misty pulls a card and places it before me. It’s a hand holding a thick branch. I blink and the hand turns silver. I blink again and it’s back to normal.

“Ace of wands, upright,” Misty points. “Great card. It means new beginnings, a brand new page. It could also mean excitement, creativity, and passion.”

I understand the first part, could see it being true. I think about the rest…

I’m alive, and I’m excited about managing to cheat death yet again and finally beating the relic’s malfunctions. 

Creativity could be Viktor’s talent, and how he succeeded at the impossible. 

But passion? What could that possibly be?

Before I could ask, Misty pulls another card, but doesn’t reveal it. “I’m gonna give you one for the future. Let’s skip the past, no point dwelling on it, right?”

I nod gratefully.

She places the card. It’s an upside-down sword-scales fusion.

“Justice, reversed,” she says, and tuts. “Something’s not right in—you guessed it—the justice department. In the future, you or someone else you encounter will not be fair, or will be dishonest, maybe even corrupt.”

I let a finger hover over the card. I’m not sure who the card is alluding to. Is it talking about Viktor? Is he not giving me the full story of my recovery? No, it can’t be. He’s as honest as they come.

Misty clears the table of both cards and reshuffles idly. “Be careful, V.”

“Of what?”

She chews her lip. “Of squandering your second chance.”

* * *

As I close the trunk of Johnny’s silver Porsche 911, I feel eyes on me.

I look up, search for the source, and find it quickly. There’s a young man in flashy, neon clothing leaning against a Burrito XXL vending machine, chewing on a stale Rosado. His right eye is glinting blue as he scans me.

Raising a brow, I move around the car to stand near the front, letting him scan me all he wants.

Once his eye stops glinting, he stops chewing.

I keep my eyes on him, daring, as he slowly moves his hand to his side, where a one-shot polymer is hanging in its flimsy holster.

As the man shoots, I unsheathe my katana and flick the pathetic projectile away like a booger. In a moment, I have him pressed against the vending machine with my blade against his throat. I grab his wrist and squeeze, and my implant crushes it like a can of cola.

He yelps, dropping the gun, but not daring to move as the blade digs into his neck.

“Do you have a death wish?“ I glare at him for a few quiet moments. “You’re in luck, Christmas came early. Ho ho motherfucker.”

“No! Please! I… I was wrong! I saw your bounty and I—”

“Thought you’d get two hundred twenty-five thousand eddies richer?” I press the blade deeper, but not enough to break the skin and poison him.

“Three! Three!” he cries, raising his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.

Fuck. Militech’s been busy.

I shake him. “Consider this your last warning.”

He nods wildly, tears slipping down his cheeks.

I move away from him, and he instantly sprints away, leaving both his food and his weapon.

Huffing, I put away my katana and take a seat in the car.

I drive for a few minutes, weaving through traffic while testing all my implants. Response time, movement, connection…

I make it to Corpo Plaza before I realize I have no idea where I’m going.

I park in the corner of Kang Tao’s parking lot and stare up at the massive buildings swallowing the sky. Petrochem, Arasaka, Militech, Fourth Wall, Kiroshi. Names and buildings and buildings and names. Different yet the same. Just as corrupt. Just as monstrous.

There was a time when I called Militech my home. One of their talent scouts stepped me in my way right after I finished a job, which he’d been throughly spying on. He offered me a job, a chance to become something better than a Ronin, more respected, richer. 

Alone and empty inside, I said yes.

Big mistake.

I wrestled my way out of there. But corporations are like the Mafia, you only leave in a coffin. Militech still possesses the final nails for mine somewhere in an executive’s drawer, waiting for someone to flatline me.

It’s been three years, bordering on four, and they still haven’t given up, even after I’d cut down any and all would-be assassins they’d sent my way.

Fuck, this somehow makes me miss being a nobody.

“Did I hear that right, V?” Johnny says, appearing in the passenger’s seat with a lit cigarette between his metallic fingers. “What happened to blaze of glory?” 

I sigh as I sit back, watching the orange goldfish hologram cutting through the air above us, its scales glistening like topaz. “Think we’ve already burned as bright as we could. Now we’re just cinders.”

“Still better than being nobodies, never forget that.”

I look at him and find him pulling on his cigarette, letting the fake smoke waft out his nostrils. He’s switched the Samurai top for a long sleeve with a billy-goat print, the leather pants for dark blue jeans, and he has a silver earring in one earlobe.

I point. “Did Viktor turn you into a Barbie when I wasn’t looking?”

He looks down at his clothing, and chuckles. “You know, memory is weird when you can access it whenever you want. That surgery we went through made everything clearer, so much that I can flip through memories like a damn book. Preem, right?”

I look at his folded hands, noting that the silver rings he used to wear are nowhere to be seen. “You mean you can recall every single outfit you’ve ever worn, and wear it?”

“Not just that, but I can experience sensations through reliving our memories. I can remember music. Remember how it felt like to eat, drink, and smoke. And yeah, I can finally change out of that damn vest that’s been itching me for fifty years. Feels good to wipe all that Arasaka filth.”

Great. It’s not enough that he knows my memories, now he’s appropriating them whenever he wants.

Wait, what am I saying? I’ve experienced more of his life than I wish to mention.

Either way, this is gonna be hard to get used to. It’s one thing to have another person in one’s head, but it’s another when that person gains enough freedom to seem almost separate. I already feel cramped.

“Chin up, least we’re alive and well,” he says, placing his knee on the glove compartment.

“True,” I say, tapping my fingers on the wheel.

Johnny tries to inconspicuously glance at Arasaka tower, but I notice.

“Now, for what we’re gonna do,” he continues, ”how ‘bout you call everyone you said goodbye to? I’m sure they miss you.”

“Right.”

“And let’s pass by the Afterlife, there’s something I gotta do.”

Rogue. Fuck, I’ve almost forgotten about her. The memory of Adam Smasher flatlining her was buried beneath days of pain.

“Johnny… fucking hell, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look at me, and his voice is brittle as he says, “Gonna deal with it, don’t worry.”

“I couldn’t save her in time. I’m so sorry.”

“V, it’s alright. Quit apologizing,” he says, then instantly changes the subject, “After that’s done with, take us home. I miss our bed.”

Our bed.

“Yes, V,” he answers the unspoken question. “Our bed, in our apartment.”

I snort, letting the mood shift. “It’s funny that we’re one step ahead of a married couple.”

He smiles weakly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

We sit in companionable silence, watching the city breathe around us. Cars pass above us on the translucent bridge. Lights blink inside offices and apartments and laboratories. Ads shimmer against the skyscrapers, scrolling up to the heavens, showcasing peppermint-scented shaving cream, a three-day-long adventure braindance, a woman’s bare ass, red, with a gloved hand hovering in the corner…

“You know, I’m still surprised you decided to do it,” he says, flicking his cigarette into the ether.

“Do what?”

“Going under the knife with no guarantee of waking up, knowing that it’s the most painful thing you’ll ever experience.”

I cringe as his words remind me of that very pain. “I had no other choice.”

“Yes you did. Told you what you could do,” he says, turning to me and resting his arm on the back of my chair.

“Fuck off, Johnny.”

“Told you I would take a bullet for you,” he says, eyeing the necklace around my neck, half-hidden under my jumpsuit. “Coulda given myself to Alt and let you live, but you didn’t take me up on that offer. You decided to backtrack and go after the impossible.”

I clench my teeth. “I would never throw you under the bus just to survive.”

“But I gave you permission,” he continues, leaning closer to stare right into me. “Already lived my share. Wanted you to live yours.”

“I am.”

“But your ripperdoc wasn’t sure it would work.”

I study the crinkles at the corner of his sad eyes. “But it did.”

He sighs, and I swear I can feel his air on my face.

“You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Learned from the best.”

We stare at each other for a few more tense moments, then he leans back with a huff and a soft smile on his face. I don’t try to hide my grin. 

* * *

“We have a tail.”

I look at the rear-view mirror and find a Yaiba with peeling purple paint following us at a distance. I look back at the bridge connecting Corpo Plaza to Watson, uninterested.

“Didn’t hear me?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“They’ll fuck off. I’m in no mood to flatline anyone.”

“Thought I’d never see the day,” he says with a laugh. “What’s next? A Lizzy Wizzy song with good lyrics?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m serious, Johnny. I’ll lose them in traffic.”

He looks at the rear-view mirror and twists his mouth. “Come on, V. First the guy with the peashooter, now this? You’re losing your edge.”

“No, I’m just sick of having to wash off the blood.”

“Use my gun,” he says without a second thought.

“I’m dead tired.”

“Excuses…”

I accelerate and weave through traffic, putting three cars between me and the Yaiba, but it soon catches up, our bumpers practically kissing. I glance at the mirror and find that it’s a man and a woman, tattooed all over, with nude metal limbs and questionable fashion choices. Kids in love, probably, trying to make enough money to afford their own place. Their eyes must’ve popped out of their sockets when they saw my bounty.

Fucking Militech.

I choose to ignore them for a few more minutes, passing under bridges and through tight streets to shake them off, but they stay on. They must’ve tagged me.

“V…”

“Shut it.”

“You’ll run out of choo before they give up.”

“They’re just a pair of gonk teens.”

“Teens that are trying to flatline you for eddies.”

I slam my hands on the wheel. “God fucking dammit, fine!”

I prepare to turn, wanting to stop near the sidewalk, but the handbrake pushes up on its own and the wheel turns to the left right under my fingers. The car swerves, turning sideways to fill the street, and the Yaiba slams into the Porsche, knocking the breath out of me. I recover quickly and look at the Yaiba. Its hood is crushed, revealing a smoking engine beneath. The passengers are dazed, blinking, hands flailing for their seat belts.

I turn to Johnny, breathless, “What the fuck? Was that you?”

“They woulda ran,” he states simply, shrugging.

“Are you fucking insane?! You could’ve killed us! You could’ve totaled your car!”

“But it didn’t happen.”

My lips part and my eyes widen. “Is this some sort of comeuppance for not fucking sacrificing you?”

The corner of his mouth twists into a smirk.

I groan, wanting to lunge at him, yet knowing it wouldn’t do shit. I grab my katana from the backseat and throw the slightly dented door open. Unsheathing it, I impatiently march to the pair, who have just limped out of their destroyed car. They quickly crouch behind the doors and raise their guns.

I waste no time and rush to the man, dodging his bullet. I slice at his elbow, blade going through like a string through butter, and he lets out an agonizing screech as the implant falls at my feet.

Those around us scream and rush to escape, abandoning their kiosks and food carts.

I move around the Yaiba’s door and grab him by the hair, slam his head through the window repeatedly, and bury my blade in his spine. 

Just as he goes limp, his pink-haired partner cries out like a dying animal, and pulls the trigger over and over.

In a second, I pounce up on the car’s roof and descend on her, plunging the katana into her purple eye. She chokes, putting her gun against my chest, but drops it, and slides off my blade.

I let out a breath, and shake my katana free of blood.

Spotting some synth shrimp skewers sizzling on a grill, I walk over. With my free hand, I sprinkle pepper and salt, squeeze ReaLemon on top, and dig in.

I slide into the driver’s seat and toss the empty skewer out. I toss my katana to the backseat.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Johnny says calmly, studying the blood splatters on my face, “show them they can’t fuck with us.”

I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “Believe me, I could decapitate a hunter’s head and the body would come looking for me later.”

“Means you’re worth it,” he says, winking.

I sigh and drive away from the scene, already regretting it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5vM--wJSVg

After finishing up at the columbarium, I rejoin Silverhand in the Porsche.

“Hey,” I say as I close the door behind me. “How are we doing?”

His arms are crossed and he’s looking toward the direction of the niche where we entombed Rogue’s gun. I know why he can’t look at me, did the same as a child when I was upset and didn’t want to show weakness in front of my sister. She could pick up the slightest twitch, the faintest glimmer of a tear.

But he can trust me with his feelings. I mean… dammit, we know everything there is to know about each other. And I can feel his pain just as much as he could feel mine.

“Johnny,” I let my hand hover over his shoulder, knowing he’s not physically there. “Talk to me.”

He sighs, chest expanding and falling. “What about?”

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

I sheepishly let my hand drop, wanting to give him space. I put my hands on the steering wheel and wait for his word.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares out the window at the gloomy night, exhaling deeply every now and then. 

I want to comfort him so badly—his grief is gnashing me, consuming me. I can feel it squeezing at my heart. He’s recalling every moment they had together at dizzying speeds, and it’s making my head pound.

He might’ve noticed my discomfort, for he finally turns and looks at me, destroyed. “I didn’t treat her the way she deserved to be treated.”

I don’t know what to say to that, how to alleviate his pain, our pain, so I just say, “It’s alright.”

“No, V. It’s not,” he says through his teeth, fuming at himself. “Let down so many people, used them, abandoned them when they needed me. None of this woulda happened if I just… wasn’t… me.”

“Wasn’t,” I say, moving into his view. “That’s the keyword. You’re no longer that person. I know you changed, that there’s not a drop of hubris in you left.”

He chuckles mirthlessly at that. “Yeah? Not a lick?

I smile despite myself. “Maybe just a bit, but you’re still different. You offered me something you would’ve never if you were the old you.”

“What’s that?”

“Your life, Johnny,” I wish I could seize his shoulder and force him to look at me, to hear my words loud and clear. “You offered your damn life, the most precious thing you own, your last chance at existence.”

He mulls over that, chewing his lip.

“Old Johnny let people down, but this Johnny didn’t.”

“Yeah?” he quickly says as if he’s uncomfortable with merely listening to the truth.

“You saved my life many times over. You offered me perspective, companionship, hope…”

He smiles sadly. “Don’t go mushy on me.”

“I know that Rogue forgives you. She saw what you became and she loved it. There’s only one thing left for you to do.”

He doesn’t say anything, finally choosing to wait. He slowly turns his head to look at me, terrified.

“You have to forgive yourself.”

At that, he closes his eyes and swallows. He hides most of his face behind his silver hand, making it look like he’s scratching an itch along his brow.

Eventually, he clears his throat and sends a command to start the car. It roars to life and jitters under me.

“Let’s get out of here, V.”

* * *

My apartment lies in the Kabuki district, overlooking the perpetually-crowded market. I’d ditched the one in Little China for this one when I got enough eddies taking down marks and beating up cheating husbands. This one is larger, with two bathrooms, a separate kitchen, two bedrooms, and a balcony. Wasn’t too expensive, since it lies in one of the older buildings that were built around the forties.

I walk in and place the box of medicine on the coffee table. Quickly, I gather the smelly to-go boxes, empty kibble packets, ammo boxes, Soulhiker cans and throw them in the kitchen’s trash can.

Johnny takes a seat at the dining table while I make quick work of the dishes I was too anxious to do before we left for Arasaka. Deep inside, I felt I won’t be returning from that suicide mission, and so I left the pointless act of cleaning my apartment to whoever ends up reclaiming it.

Finishing up, I move to check my bedroom for roaches or other vermin. Johnny follows me, plopping down on my— _our_ —double bed with a groan.

“Fuck,” Johnny says, stretching on the mattress like a sleepy cat. “This reminds me of when I finally went home after a—”

“Six months long tour?” I nonchalantly finish for him as I look behind my desk.

He lifts his head to look at me. “How the hell did you know that?”

I point to my head.

“Right,” he says, letting his head drop back on the pillow.

I open my dresser’s top drawer and rummage through the folded clothes. “So, what do you think we should do now?”

“Fuck if I know,” he says, turning his back to me. “Why’re you asking me?”

I look at his grimy boots on my duvet. If he was physically there, I would’ve whooped his ass.

I quickly change into a tank top and comfy shorts, stuffing the jumpsuit in the lower drawer. “You seemed to have all the answers before.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. I’m all out, like the balls of a braindance star after a day-long recording session.”

“Uh-huh,” I nod as I pick a beige trench coat for tomorrow. “You know what? Think I’m gonna lay low, there are way too many gonks looking for me out there.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

Just as I find the black pants I was looking for, my hand brushes against something cold. Frowning, I reach in for it, pull it out.

Two stainless steel dog tags. Johnny’s, to be precise. I’d stuffed them in there because I had no idea what to do with them. 

I thought about burying them where we found his grave, but I felt it wasn’t his aim when he entrusted them to me. 

I thought about giving them to Rogue, but… well...

They were a promise. His life for my survival. Now that the promise is no longer applicable, it’s even harder to come up with a way to properly honor the tags.

Johnny appears beside me, but I don’t jump back and stumble in shock. Ever since I plugged the damn relic in my head, I’ve felt his presence like an itch. After going through chemical therapy, his presence became a fire. Warm, bright, exigent, always in the back of my mind, sometimes in the front.

He looks at the tags in my hand, but doesn’t say anything. It’s becoming a habit of ours—speaking little, saying much.

I read the inscription. _Linder, Robert, J., 811-73-2811, AB positive, no preference._ The steel is scratched, chipped at the edges, basically an artifact that memorabilia snobs would pay through the nose for.

Just looking at them is bringing back memories that aren’t my own. Broken first generation cybernetics strewn among cooling, battered bodies, prototype AVs humming above, the deafening sound of gunfire, artillery, screaming, marching, and the terror of being just at the edge of death.

I close my eyes and squeeze my fingers around the steel.

“Memory doesn’t do it justice,” Johnny says, leaning against the dresser. “It’s much worse in person.”

I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat. “Seems like it.”

“You feel like one one of those robots they use for delivery. Someone programs you to kill, and you kill, no questions asked. You want to break out of your programming and go free, but you can’t, ‘cause it’ll get you zeroed. So you make peace with your purpose, but you lose a part of yourself. Some people lose it all.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that crap.”

He shakes his head. “Battlefield’s where I realized where I stand. Millions died because someone with too much power wanted even more. They ripped us from our homes, put guns in our hands and dropped us down south to fight their miserable conflicts. When we asked why we were fighting, they spoke of protecting US interests. What a load of crap.”

I turn to face him, taking in his distant gaze.

“Was all because they wanted a bigger slice of the cake. Wanted more land, more resources, more civilians to exploit,” he presses his lips together, expression turning stormy, and I feel his anger mounting in my own belly. “And when they were done with us, they left us in Panama, saying they had no more money to bring us home. If there’s one thing I did right, it’s leaving it all behind. I broke out of my fucking programing, V.”

I look at his cybernetic arm, loosely supporting his pseudo weight against the dresser. Ironically, Arasaka’s name is imprinted on the inner segment.

I dig into our memory and find the moment when he lost it. I cringe when the sight of blood, torn skin, and bullet holes assaults me.

He looks at it. “Hurt like shit. Like sticking your arm in a fucking volcano. Couldn’t get used to it once I got it installed. Took me about six months till I stopped crushing glasses.”

I flex my own fingers, high-end Militech digits with black steel covering and sub-dermal armor. They offered me Realskinn but I felt leaving them exposed would make me look more threatening, more professional. They’re a part of me, didn’t even take me that long to adapt to their strength and flexibility, certainly not as long as Johnny.

As for the price, it was years of servitude, doing Militech’s bidding and cleaning up after their fatal mistakes.

“Don’t understand today’s mindset,” Johnny says, studying my hands judgmentally. “People nowadays would swap healthy flesh for chrome without a second thought.”

I can’t muster enough will to be offended. “They’re a necessity. The less implants you have, the less effective you are.”

“The more implants you have, the more wacko you become. Not to mention drawing a big red bullseye on your ass.”

True. There have been many low-lives who took one look at my implants and began drooling.

I know he’s just arguing for argument’s sake. But for some reason, I get the urge to defend myself, “I needed them for work, you know that.”

“Yeah, but it still pisses me off that corporations turned us into monsters.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re not over that, yet?”

“Why would I be, V?” he pushes off the dresser and gestures out the window. “Take a good look at this shit and tell me it doesn’t piss you off!”

Beyond the glass, I see a colorful, bright world with supreme technological advancements. Flying vehicles, maglevs, implants that let the blind see and the handicapped walk, incredible adventures delivered straight into the head, cures for ailments that baffled scientists throughout history, and sentient-AI contained within fridges, cars, guns, and stores.

But I also see the poverty, the pollution, the unemployment, the absurd weather, the greed, the aggression, the brutality, the blatant disregard for human life.

How can a world of rainbows be so depressing?

“I know that you know,” Johnny says, pointing at the city again. “You know it’s their fault. They took everything we ever owned down to the soul, and then they took some more. And when there was nothing left to take, they began selling us what they stole. Tell me I’m wrong for not being fucking over it, V.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Exactly.”

I take a seat on my bed, dog tags still in hand. I avoid his incessant gaze, not knowing what to say if he asks another question.

“I fought for the people that died with their children’s name on their last breaths. Fought for the blood they spilled on foreign battlefields because they had no other choice. Fought for an end to that barely-veiled form of modern slavery. I fought for the future.”

“And are you satisfied with the future?” I challenge him, daring to lift my head to look straight at him.

Johnny moves to kneel in front of me, and puts his hand on mine, where I’m holding his dog tags with a death-like grip. His touch is cold, light, barely there, like a breeze, and I’m sure if he moves his hand an inch, it would go right through me.

“No, I’m not,” he says through his teeth. “All the change I thought I made was erased in a few years.”

I shake my head at him in disbelief. “You ended the Fourth Corporate War.”

“And caused the death of millions,” he says weakly, looking down at our hands.

“But you prevented further loss. If you hadn’t stopped the war, it would’ve resulted in tens of millions of casualties.”

Johnny exhales, twisting his mouth. “Either way, the future I was afraid of happened anyway. None of the shit I did mattered.”

My other hand twitches, wanting to move the lock of hair that’s fallen over his sorrowful eyes. “Then what should we do about it?”

He scowls, and I feel acid-like rage brewing inside him, inside me. “I’ll tell you what the fuck we’re gonna do about it. We go out there, and we right as many wrongs as we can. Whatever it is, however small or big it is, we fix it.”

I chew my lip uneasily. “Think we can?”

“I know we can,” he says, eyeing me seriously, and I feel his icy grip shift and intensify.

I loosen my grasp and look at the dog tags. He cups my hand in his own. A promise, not just for my survival, but for the survival of many. The mutiny of the people against those who trampled them. A chance to teach them how to lift themselves from the dust.

I take off my necklace, the metallic circle holding the bullet that was once swimming around in my brain, and I touch it with my thumb. Here lies the old V, the dead V, the V that only cared about day-to-day survival.

I place the necklace in my lap, and don Johnny’s dog tags. They’re cold against my skin, heavy with implication and duty. Johnny places his hand over the chain, over my heart, with a soft expression.

He then looks at the necklace on my thigh. One second later, it materializes before my eyes against his chest.

He looks at me through his lashes. “I got you, V.”

“And I got you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37qOKDY5CRc

After paying a quick, tearful visit to Judy Alvarez, I declined her offer to sleep over and left her apartment. I roam Kabuki for a few minutes until my nose takes me to a maze of dank alleyways that smell like meatballs and ramen.

I choose a particularly small kiosk and I sit down at the counter. 

Nodding to the cook, I order the usual, “Chicken broth, garlic powder, ReaLemon, easy on the hot sauce.”

As the cook gets to work, I look around. The alley is narrow and stuffy, filled with empty cardboard boxes and half-eaten pizza slices. There’s a steaming manhole in the corner, beside a smelly tagged dumpster. There are dozens of busted electronics piled at the entrance of a nearby pawnshop. As a man passes, I see him scoop up at least three antique phones, stuffing them in his pocket.

When the cook places the bowl before me and I take the first tangy bite, Johnny appears in the stool next to mine.

“How’s your food?” he asks idly, leaning back against the counter.

I shrug, blowing on a forkful. “Can’t complain. At least it’s a hot meal.”

“Hoped the future would offer a nicer menu, but food’s still as plain as white toast.”

I tilt the bowl and drink some of the broth, sighing as it begins to warm my insides. “Have you ever had fresh fruit?”

I, myself, have never even seen fruit in the flesh outside of Militech. There was a bowl sitting on the desk of Declan Vinson, one of the snobby executives I answered to. The bowl was perpetually-filled with red, orange, and green fruit, a quick scan informed me they were cherries, clementine, and pear.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the guts to sneak into his office and try them for myself. It would’ve gotten me flatlined faster than I could say ‘yum’.

Johnny hums at the memory, brow scrunching for a moment. “One time, a groupie got me a red apple, thinking I’d screw her in return.”

“Did you…?”

“Did I screw her, or did I eat the apple?”

I slurp a forkful while I lift two fingers. The cook stares at me, confused.

“Yeah, did both,” he says, snorting and shaking his head.

I wipe my chin, then try to find the memory of its taste. But it’s murky, distant, so I ask, “How was it?”

“She wasn’t friends with personal hygiene.”

“Like that ever stopped you,” there are some things I’ve in his memory that makes me wish I can’t. “But I mean the apple.”

Johnny runs his metal fingers through his hair as he recalls. I suddenly feel a sweet taste tingling at the sides of my tongue. I raise my brows and swallow.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding to himself. “Makes you wonder what other fruit would taste like.”

I sigh and look down at my mostly-synthetic meal.

Oh well, fuel is fuel.

Right when I finish eating, I get a call from a number I don’t recognize.

I get them often. One fixer tells the other about a Ronin for hire, and so on. Connections, they are the cogs of Night City, what makes the economic wheel turn.

Johnny cringes as the call keeps ringing in our heads. “Are you going to pick up or not?”

Good question. I still feel battered after the operation and I’m not sure if I’m up to whatever task I’ll inevitably agree to do, since I need the eddies to buy more supplies for medicine.

Sighing, I pick up.

When I don’t say anything for a moment, I hear them clear their throat.

“Is… is this V?” a man’s voice that instantly stirs my memory, and his name slides to the tip of my tongue, but it keeps slipping from my grasp like soap.

“Who wants her?”

“I… uh… it’s best if we meet.”

Great, one of those secretive gonks. Must be a paranoid BD abuser, or another damn pop star.

“Nice try,” I say dryly, turning to glance at Johnny with an unimpressed frown. “Next time, plan your trap better.”

“No, no, this isn’t a trap.”

“The hunter says to the deer,” I say, paying for the food and standing. “Unfortunately for you, I ain’t a deer.”

The man on the line groans, and the noise makes me pause again. “Listen to me, I have a job proposal. I can’t speak a word of it now since someone might be listening.”

Stuffing my hands in the pockets of my trench coat, I raise an eyebrow. Johnny walks alongside me as I make my way out of the tangle of alleys, into the humid afternoon.

“Do I know you?” I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve heard his voice before. Sure, I’ve interacted with a shitload of people through my years of being a Ronin, but I can’t help but feel this isn’t just some guy I did a snoozefest contract for years ago.

Could it be…? No, impossible. His voice is less scratchy, almost angelic, makes you feel as if there’s a sliver of hope somewhere in this godforsaken mess.

“Doesn’t matter,” a sigh. “Meet me at the Brooklyn Barista down in Martin street. Six PM sharp, I’ll be waiting for you in the first booth on the right.”

Brooklyn Barista. Cheap coffee that tastes as if it was made of dung and lint, but it’s nonetheless popular with laborers and homeless teens. The place is often bursting with them. Whoever this man is, he’s just as wary of me as I am of him.

I lean against a Cirrus cola vending machine and look at Johnny for advice.

He crosses his arms and shrugs. “Might be worth checking out. If turns out to be a trap, skewer him.”

I nod, watching him fish out a cigarette pack from his pocket.

“Okay.”

* * *

Brooklyn Barista smells of day-old sweat, dry synth cake and mold. When I step in, the soles of my boots stick to the grimy, white-and-purple checkered tiles. It takes effort to unstick them, as if I’ve stepped on layers and layers of spilled coffee.

As I move, the soot-faced builders to my left shrink and squeeze themselves against the wall, eyes wide as they watch me. Three of them take their cups and quickly slip away. The barista at the counter glances at me once, then crouches behind the counter, pretending to sort through supplies.

I look to the right, where the man said I’d find him. He’s in the booth alright, sitting tensely at the edge of the torn leather cushion. He’s looking out the window at passing cars, leaving only the back of his head—short salt-and-pepper-hair—for me to examine.

Sighing, I gingerly take a seat in the booth, and clear my throat.

He turns his head, and my mouth dries.

His soft green eyes crinkle as he takes me in. He’s shaved his lumberjack beard, which was once a prominent feature of his. There are wrinkles around his mouth, lines on his forehead, freckles dotting his neck. Night City did a number on him, yet he still smells the same—like detergent, leather and cognac.

His badge is nowhere to be seen. I bet he stuffed it in his pocket so that gangbangers don’t shoot him.

He studies my eye implants, my metal fingers, and grimaces. I know he has one implant, a bionic liver to help him metabolize alcohol at inhuman speeds, but nothing else. He was quite vocal about his hatred for cybernetics back in the day.

He takes a sip of his coffee, folds his hands on the table, and looks at the other cup he’s gotten.

“You take it with no sugar and a bit of milk, right?” he says, watching me carefully. 

Instantly, I bristle and get the urge to flee. I glance at the door, but Johnny glitches in front of me, blocking my view. I curse under my breath.

“Do you… want some cake with it?” he says, pointing at my coffee again. “It’s not bad, I had it a few times on break.”

I force myself to stay seated. “What do you want?”

“Come on, Valerie, is this how you greet your old man?” Maximilian Jeannin says.

I curl my fingers into fists, and the desire to reach for Johnny’s gun intensifies. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t worry,” he watches my rigid form warily. “I’m not here to bring you home, it’s far too late for that.”

“Then what do you want?”

He leans back, twisting his mouth. “I told you, I have a job proposal.”

“I don’t work with pigs.”

He winces, and I immediately feel like apologizing.

Fuck, keep it together, V.

“You won’t be working with ‘pigs’. I’m not with the NCPD anymore.”

“What?” I could’ve sworn I’d heard his name on a list a netrunner pulled out. I wanted to know who was patrolling a district I had business in.

“I retired a year ago,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m a private investigator now. Pays more with less working hours.”

“You work for corpocunts?”

He shakes his head. “Civilians and small organizations.”

I sigh. “Why would I want to work with you?”

“Because I can take care of your bounty. I have contacts up-top that owe me a few favors. Did a lot for them when they were in the lower rungs.”

I pause. It would be nice to finally stop looking over my shoulder every five minutes…

“Hang on, you can’t just come out of the blue like that to offer me a damn partnership. Not after all this time.”

“You say that as if I’m the one that left you,” he takes a sip, keeping his eyes on me. “What do you want to do, then? Do you want to catch up? Reminisce?”

“I don’t know! Something, anything!” I throw my hands up, exasperated. Seeing him after all these years is disorienting, it’s like I drank too much and proceeded to wake up in an alternate universe. “How’d you even find me?”

He laughs silently, chest shaking, and my heart sinks as I realize it’s the exact way he’s always laughed. 

“You’re not that hard to find,” he says. “ You don’t take precautions, you don’t hide your tracks, and you don’t scramble your identity on the network. What’s left is for you to shout your name from the rooftops.”

I don’t say anything to that.

“They call you Dybbuk,” he continues, eyes analytical. “They say you rose from the dead with the ghost of a terrorist in your head. They say you’re damn near unstoppable, immortal, and you can find anyone and anything and put it to sleep.”

“They exaggerate.”

“Yeah?” he looks around at the few jittery workers that haven’t bolted out as soon as they saw me entering. “You mean to say you haven’t cleaned up an entire building full of chromed-out Maelstrom gangoons with a Santoku knife and a towel?”

I shift in my seat as blood drains from my face. This is the sort of info I don’t want friends and relatives learning, but you can’t escape rumor in Night City.

But… he’s right, I haven’t done much to quell such gossip. Maybe I fucking like it.

“I’m in need of your… services,” Max says. “This is a battle I can’t fight alone. Let me show you what I mean.”

He pulls out a black chip from his inner pocket and places it between us. I look at it, but I don’t make a move.

“Go on, slot it. It’s not bugged.”

My knuckles turn white as I tighten my fists. I look at Johnny for permission. He shrugs his shoulder, a contemplative look on his face.

Sighing, I comply.

As my implants process the outdated chip, Max begins explaining, “There’s a serial killer active in Santo Domingo’s slums. The locals call him Chrysanthemum. His victim of choice seems to be girls aged twelve to fifteen. I counted fifty-four victims since twenty seventy-one.”

That long and no one’s lifted a finger to stop him. This city makes me sick. I question my decision to move from the quiet and quaint rural Nevada to this hellhole every single day.

“What the fuck are the pigs doing?” I snap. “Why aren’t they looking into this?”

His nose wrinkles and he looks away. “NCPD would care more about this case if the victims weren’t homeless nobodies. They sent two officers to the last crime scene eight days after NCPD was notified. By then the body was half-eaten by maggots. This is why the locals hired me instead.”

It’s getting harder and harder to keep my lunch down. “This is stupid. I can’t believe you used to work with those assholes. I can’t believe you wanted me to sign up.”

He exhales, shifting in his seat. He doesn’t look like the other cops and hired investigators in Night City, all-work-no-play greedy bastards that shoot first, ask questions later. He looks permanently tired, aged, as if the city drained him of every single bit of optimism he had left. But beneath it all I can still see what once was—the hope-filled father that woke us early to eat Slaughterhouse jerky deep-fried in car oil and synthetic black beans before going out to scavenge.

“Look, the NCPD will have nothing to do with this investigation. You’d be working with me, and just me.”

I cross my arms tightly, letting my fingertips dig into my skin. “Why me? Is this an excuse to talk to me? See how long my hair has gotten or some other BS?”

“No,” he steeples his fingers. “I’ve been following your career, and I think you’re the right woman for the job. Simple as that. The fact that we’re related is… well, unrelated.”

I don’t believe him. When I left Nevada for good back when I was seventeen, he’d followed me to Night City, becoming an underpaid beat cop instead of a well-respected sheriff just to keep an eye on me. He’d do anything for family.

The chip finally finishes loading and images suddenly appear in my vision, and I part my lips in shock. Pools of blood brushed to form gruesome angel wings, long blond hair spread like a halo, and flowers, so many colorful flowers covering their unblemished bodies, arranged in carefully calculated ways only an artist could come up with. The urge to puke pinches my insides again, and I swallow hard.

“Who are the suspects?” I ask weakly as the showcase switches to a map of Night City.

“None yet, I only know that he’s male.”

I look at him through the empty space above the map. “What? You don’t have any suspects yet?”

Max shrugs. “It hasn’t been that long since I took the job.”

Fifty-four red dots flash across the map, most of them situated in Santo Domingo, but some in Westbrook and Pacifica. Then the map fades and I look at Max.

“If there’s anyone that can help me stop him, it’s you,” he continues, nodding to himself. “That is, if the stories are true.”

I neither confirm nor deny them, remaining silent. 

The coffee shop is eerily quiet—I can hear the neons humming above us. Can hear the small, cautious sips a woman in the back is taking of her latte. The barista is idly polishing a ceramic mug with a rag, unblinking eyes fixed on us.

Feeling all the attention on me, I idly wrap my fingers around the paper cup and let the heat sensors of my implants drink in the warmth.

“Well? What do you say?” Max asks. “I’ll also throw in a bonus. They’re offering me twenty-four grand, I’ll give you eight.”

I press my lips together, refusing to glance at him. Before I could dissuade myself, I quickly rise from my seat. “Excuse me.”

Walking out into the warm air is more refreshing than a dip in a cryo tub. I can finally breathe, as if a weight was lifted off my chest.

Johnny appears in front of me, a judgmental glint in his eye. “Why’d you run?”

“Fuck, Johnny. I needed to think.”

I felt I was being put on the spot with nowhere to go. My fucking father pops out of nowhere and asks me to work with him…

It’s been eleven years! Merely looking at him is bringing back memories of us taking a break from scavenging to drink tea made of dried thyme and Real Water, while we watched dust devils and nomad caravans passing by on the cracked, barely visible 395 highway.

It seems like a lifetime ago, a lifetime full of blood, danger, and pain. Neither of us are the same people, and it’s making me half-crazy.

“Good to finally meet the old man in person,” Johnny comments, looking at Max through the spotted window of the shop. “Your memories of him are cloudier than a piss-poor braindance.”

“That’s because I don’t want to remember him,” I stare at the muted paint of passing cars, cornflower and crimson and aquamarine. “I don’t want to remember anything related to my old life.”

“Why not?”

I close my eyes and hide my face in my hands. “Because I don’t want to.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t prod. Instead, he moves closer until the toes of his brown boots nearly touch mine. “You should take the job.”

“Why would I?” I snap.

“’Cause you promised you’d help me make a difference.”

I let my hands drop and look at him. He’s so close that I could see a few amber speckles in his irises. “You think this would make a difference?”

“Yeah,” he searches my eyes. “No one else seems to give a fuck about this, even though they should. We’re the only ones that could do something, us and your old man.”

The images of stripped, rotting corpses framed with flowers flicker in my mind. I’m not entirely sure if Johnny’s triggering that to make a point.

“Plus, aren’t you tired of bloodthirsty gonks trying to flatline you?” he asks in a low tone. “Go on, tell ‘em yes.” 

“But…” tears start to prickle my eyes, surprising me. I quickly rub them. “You don’t understand. It’s been so long and there’s so much I want to tell him. I left him without a word. Just woke up, packed my shit and started walking.”

“I do understand,” he says firmly, reminding me that my thoughts are always bare to him. “And I’m sure he understands, or else he wouldn’t be here, asking you for help.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and step back. “Fucking hell, Johnny.”

I go back into the shop, and the heaviness returns almost instantly, coiling in the pit of my stomach. The weight of so much left unsaid, so much buried before its time.

“I’ll take the job,” I say as I slide back into the booth.

Max sits up and tries to hide his relief, but I can see it in the way his shoulders slumped. “Good. I’ll give you the coordinates, meet you there at ten AM tomorrow. Don’t be late.” Max drains his cup and rises, fixing his leather jacket. “And V?”

I force myself to look at him.

“Good to see you.”   
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAnOt74e9_Q

I drive through Santo Domingo with the sun in my face. Johnny is beside me, eyes fixed on a random point in the distance. I unavoidably hear his thoughts— _Wonder what made the killer do this? Some kind of fucked up fetish?_

Johnny woke me at eight, already dressed in a black button-up shirt and beige Chelseas. He had turned on the water heater for a shower. He had also attempted—and failed—to create a cup of Joe without physically interacting with the maker.

“We have a murderer to catch,” he said, reaching for my duvet before remembering he can’t touch it. His eagerness and optimism is ridiculous, especially coming from him, and it contrasts with my unease. 

I’m not looking forward to working with my father. There’s simply too much distance between us, too much time spent apart. One does not simply go from scavenging abandoned factories together to suddenly trying to solve an unsolvable crime eleven years later.

But I already agreed to it. I shoot a dirty look at Johnny, who’s lounging in his seat without a care in the world. _He_ made me say yes. I should’ve walked out of that seedy 'coffee shop' as soon as I saw Max.

“You mean you don’t want to stop more girls from dying at the hands of this jerk-off?” he says, barely glancing at me.

“Stop listening in.”

“For the last time, I can’t help it.”

I huff, fingers tightening around the wheel. I can’t even think about something without him knowing of it.

“And?” he challenges. “Are you afraid of what I’d find?”

I bite my tongue to stop from snapping at him.

Thankfully, I get a call.

I pick it up without looking at the name. “Yes?”

“Change… of plan,” Max says. It sounds like he’s been running. “I found a body in Rancho Coronado. It’s two days old. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

I quickly turn the car and drive to the location.

* * *

Almunecar & Jerez is a rickety, barely-patrolled neighborhood in Rancho where patriots below the poverty line live in small, trailer-like houses. The rusted metal buildings are barely held together by scavenged aluminum sheets and makeshift wooden beams, and decorated with NUSA flags, large Uncle Sam stickers, and bottle caps hammered into the door frames. I can see shadows of junkies and gun nuts shifting behind the murky windows. And the only vehicles roaming the area are delivery trucks and multi-colored 2050’s Thortons.

I park to the side, near the coordinates Max gave me.

It’s an abandoned church made of rotting wooden panels with peeling egg-white paint. Bags of decade-old trash are strewn about the weed-choked lawn. I wonder how long it’s been since someone walked in there. Well… before the killer.

Johnny watches Max, who’s shifting around something colorful. I don’t let myself register whatever it is, not quite yet.

“Ready?” Johnny asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

I watch a giant AV floating near a skyscraper. “Not really, but I’ll suck it up.”

“Attagirl,” he says, and flickers momentarily, reappearing out of the vehicle, and heads to the church.

Sighing, I follow him, stepping over trash on the way.

"Not sure when's the last time I've been to a church," he says, looking at the rusty cross affixed to the roof.

"That one time in Pacifica?" I offer.

"Doesn't count."

"Church of Satan, where you played during Black X-Mass?"

"Counts even less."

"The New York church of Scientology?"

He stares at me. "Now you're just making shit up."

I shake my head. "The only church that counts to you is the Church of Tits and Ass."

"Amen to that."

Max raises a hand in greeting when he sees me approaching. “You finally made it, Dipper.”

 _Dipper_ … That was once my nickname for two reasons. One, I sang a lot as a kid, just like the American Dipper, one of the last remaining bird species in Nevada. And Two, I used to dip my hands into scavenged piles of loot when no one was looking, klepping the best items for myself. That was the start of my thieving career, which was thankfully short-lived.

I sigh as I continue up the steps, some things just don’t change.

I open my mouth to greet him back, but as I finally take in the scene before me, shock numbs my voice box like an ice lance.

Right in the center of the pale-colored church, beneath the high, broken ceiling showcasing the clear sky, is the body of a young girl. She’s pale like snow with bluish extremities, her green eyes are kept open with clear tape, her platinum hair is spread around her head like sun rays, and her arms are secured firmly to her side. Drying blood is painted meticulously around her, forming large maroon wings in baffling detail.

The flowers are another story—purple and orange and yellow and white, of all shapes and sizes, are nestled around her and under her. A rose-pink orchid near her neck, a lotus between her fingers, petals of plum blossom barely covering her privates. But the most prominent flower in the gruesome arrangement is the chrysanthemum, of colors ranging from red to orange. It seems to be the queen of the ‘artwork’, the killer’s favorite, his namesake.

“Shit…” Johnny mutters, keeping well away from the corpse.

I force myself to scan everything. Body’s fifty-six hours, fourteen minutes old. 77 degrees Fahrenheit. Contains traces of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, and propofol. The flowers… the flowers are fake, made of synthetic silk. I expected as much, flowers are as rare as fresh produce.

I quickly look at Max after I’m done.

“Been about fifty-four hours, give or take,” he types something on a paper-thin tablet. “There aren’t many signs of struggle, he must’ve drugged her and kept her under till she died of blood loss. And much like his other victims, he didn’t sexually assault her.”

Great, that’s one terrifying concern to cross off the mile-long list.

“Also, you see the incision around there?” He points to a blackish cut along the neck. 

I nod slowly, feeling numb all over.

“He must’ve killed her elsewhere. Slit her throat and drained her blood to use for the wings, which would explain the extreme pallor. Then he arranged everything postmortem.”

Max seems awfully calm discussing something like this, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been in this line of work for years and years. He’s probably forever scarred because of everything he’d seen.

I, on the other hand…

I put my hand over my mouth and try to swallow my nausea. I’ve seen my share of blood and torn flesh, but this is fucked up. He’s treating those poor girls like an art project. Murder is a pastime for this sick fuck.

“Shit… who could do such a thing?” I ask no one in particular.

Max straightens. “Take your pick. Cyberpsychos, junkies, braindance addicts, fetishists, radicals, fundamentalists, gangsters, terrorists, corrupt executives and plain old psychopaths. This city is a near-endless stream of nutjobs.”

I carefully move around the wings, taking my place beside Max. Johnny keeps staring at the teen’s tear-marked face with eyes full of pain.

“As for motivation, I have a theory,” Max says, putting his tablet under his arm.

I wait for his words, barely breathing.

“All his victims didn’t have cybernetics installed. Most kids their age would have an implant or two already, a Wearman or a personal link. But not them, not his victims.”

“And?”

“And, I think he finds something in that. A certain… purity that he could capture in an artwork. Perhaps he hates chrome,” he narrows his eyes in thought. “He could be a purist, or a chromed-out transhumanist that regrets his decisions, finding beauty in natural flesh.”

I look out the broken window. “Which one is more likely?”

“Not entirely sure. I’m gonna need more clues.”

Johnny crosses his arms and looks at me. “Transhumanist… you think he could be Maelstrom?”

I deliver the question to Max.

Max shrugs. “Don’t know, I’ll need to look into that.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Max sighs and stuffs one hand into the pocket of his faded leather jacket. “Not much. He obviously knows a lot about art, knows color theory and composition. He could be a florist, but he could also be a painter, maybe even a graphic designer, maybe all three. He’s also good with a scalpel—the incision is steady and calculated, maybe a surgeon?”

“Must be a good embalmer, too, or at least a chemist,” Johnny says.

I cock my head. “Pardon?”

“Formaldehyde, methanol… all chemicals used for embalming.”

I resist the urge to investigate how and why he knows that, and I tell Max.

Max looks at the body and nods gratefully. “Good eye.”

“So, to recap…” I start counting on my fingers. “He’s some kind of surgeon slash artist slash purist, or transhumanist.”

Max sees how my horror has turned to a sense of ease, as if I’m thinking this’ll be easy, and he shakes his head. “Unfortunately, there are many people who match that description. Memory chips, boosterware and DataTerm links are everywhere these days, and those who can afford them can use them to boost cognitive functions and download knowledge almost instantly.”

I rub my eyes, already exhausted. “What do you want me to do?”

“Look around, see if there’s anything else you can find. I’ll bag some evidence, take pictures, then call Trauma.”

I roll my eyes, it’ll be about four weeks till Trauma shows up to take the poor girl.

“Once I figure out where her family lives, I’ll let them know,” his gaze turns blank for a moment. “Once you’re done here, I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure.”

“Find us a netrunner to pinpoint all potential victims in Night City. I’ll repay you the eddies they’ll ask for,” he looks at his tablet, then back at me. “Tell them to find all homeless girls aged twelve to fifteen with blond hair, green eyes, and no cybernetic implants. Tell them to scan the entire city, not just Santo Dominigo. Send me the info that comes up.”

I twist my mouth, scowling. “The number will be in the thousands. Are you sure this is the right step?”

“Trust me, there aren’t a lot of girls with that description, and our guy is a perfectionist. He only diverted once from his taste, using a blue-eyed girl instead of the usual spring green.”

“Got it, I’ll find a netrunner,” I think I have a few contacts from previous jobs.

“Once we’re done with that, we need to find whoever made the flowers. They’re not samey enough to be mass-produced, they must be handmade.”

“Roger that.”

Max goes through a list in his head, nodding to himself. “I believe that’s it for now. I’ll contact you for further instructions during the investigation. For now, do what I told you to do.”

Sighing, I put my hands on my hips and look at Johnny. He’s recovered some, managing to look away from the corpse, but he still looks a little green around the gills. I can feel an odd sense of dread budding in his chest, which is terrifying, since he’s not the type to be shaken by anything.

If I didn’t have front row tickets to the shitshow that is his mind, he would surely try to hide his sheer terror from me.

But he can’t, neither of us can.

* * *

I hang up on the 9th netrunner I thought would be of help. She used the same excuse as the one before her—I’m busy with something big, can you wait till next week?

No, no I fucking can’t. Lives are on the line, and I told them as much, but then I was met with even worse replies—pay me ten grand upfront and I’ll push your name to the top, give me one good reason why I should work with you again, I’m sorry but I have a reputation to maintain.

I slam my hands on the steering wheel, groaning.

“Easy there, you won’t find replacements for this baby,” Johnny says. He sounds distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. Which is expected, what we’ve seen is not easy to digest.

“I can’t believe people are such assholes,” I say, starting the engine.

“Born yesterday?”

“No, but…” I begin driving out of this shithole of a neighborhood, pinning a destination in my GPS implant. “I thought they’d be a bit less… bureaucratic. Children are dying and all they can think about are eddies.”

“Welcome to Night City,” Johnny says, producing his aviators out of nowhere and sliding them on. “Where are we goin’, then?”

“I have a few more ideas,” I say as I continue north to Kabuki.

After five minutes, Johnny turns to me with a scowl. “V, did you notice… something off about… the victims…?”

“What?” I eye him thoroughly. He’s not one to hesitate so. “Speak sense.”

“They all had green eyes and blond hair.”

“So?”

Johnny stares at my black hair and crimson-red eyes. I’d gotten them to cement my status as some sort of mythical creature. It’s good for business.

“You had green eyes and blond hair before all this, didn’t you?” he says as his eyes glaze over, possibly examining my memories of looking at my reflection in puddles after it’d rained.

I grip the steering wheel harder. “What’s your point?”

His eyes snap to mine. “Think I know why your dad accepted this job, even though it’s a lot more than he can chew. It’s personal for him.”

“What?”

“He looks at their faces and he sees yours. He wants to stop this gonk at all costs because he thinks he’d be protecting you.”

“That’s BS,” I say more to myself than him, shaking my head.

“You know it’s true. He still loves you. Wants to do what he failed to do before.”

“Johnny,” I press my lips together and force myself to watch the road, “shut up.”

“You didn’t tell me why you left him.”

“Nor will I.”

“You know I already know, right?”

“Then why are you asking?!” I snap, stomping on the gas to accelerate dangerously as if it’d shut him up.

“Because I want _you_ to realize. I want you to make peace with what happened. Kicking it under the bed won’t do you any good.”

I bite my tongue and refrain from acknowledging him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, even if he’s in my damn head.

“Someday you’ll face it,” Johnny continues, leaning back in his seat. “Won’t be today, but it’s someday.”

* * *

I pass my personal link over the panel in the wall, and it turns to green. The scratched door to Judy’s apartment slides open, and I see her hunched over the counter, waiting for her tofu bar to finish cooking in the microwave. The apartment is especially clean today, with gleaming tabletops and pristine floors, and there aren’t any empty pizza boxes lying around. I wonder if she had someone over.

Johnny glitches through the wall and into the apartment. He leans forward, hands on his thighs, and whistles. “Your friend’s looking fluffier than last we saw her.”

I roll my eyes and walk in.

“Knock knock,” I say, tossing my katana on the couch and plopping down.

Judy turns and smiles when she sees me. “Hey, V! What’s good?”

“Nothing, literally nothing,” I place my feet on the coffee table and look at my boots, watching the purple reflections dance in the leather. “I got a job, but it’s not just a job.”

Judy pops open the microwave, carefully takes out her food, and walks over. “What do you mean?”

“The job came from my fucking dad.”

Judy’s brows shoot to her hairline. She takes a seat next to me and bites down on the crumbly bar.

She chews slowly, cupping her hand under her chin. “I thought you don’t talk to him anymore?”

“So did I,” I scoff, tracing the octopus painting on the wall with the tip of my finger. “He came out of nowhere saying that he’s a PI now, and that he needed my help taking down some psycho.”

I explain to Judy what I’ve seen. Crime scenes that are so similar, yet so different. The handiwork of a killer I’m somehow supposed to stop.

She leans back and scratches her scalp as she thinks. “That’s a lot to take in, V. I wish I could help you, but I’m just an editor.”

I grab one of the shiny golden throw pillows and hold it in my arms. “I know, it’s okay. But I really need a netrunner, do you know any?”

She chews her lip, mulling over it. “Look, I have a contact down in Heywood. Her name is Camille Cahun. She owes me one, but you can cash it in instead.”

“Judy, I’m not gonna use up your favors. Just point me to a netrunner that isn’t busy,” I say between air quotes.

She waves dismissively. “Trust me, I doubt I’ll ever need anything from her. Just be careful, she’s a real bitch.”

“O…kay,” I scowl. “How did she end up owing you?”

She cringes. “Let’s just say she has a ballbusting fetish.”

“I’m… sorry I asked.”

“Good,” she smiles cheekily. “She’s the owner of a club called La Réponse, I’ll give you the coordinates.”

She finishes her snack and tilts the crumbs into an ashtray. She then pokes my boot with a finger.

“Can you… not put your feet up? I just cleaned the table.”

I narrow my eyes, suspicious, and give her a once-over. Judy Alvarez, neat freak. Nope, doesn’t fit. Sounds like a shitty B-movie they’d play on 54 as filler.

“Right, what’s up with you?” I ask her as I lower my feet, much to her relief. “Why is it that you suddenly care about cleaning? What made you turn your apartment from buttfuck-nowhere trailer into corpo honeymoon suite?”

“Come on, my apartment wasn’t that bad.”

I nod repeatedly, smiling in mockery. “Think I swallowed five flies when I slept over last time.”

She lightly punches my arm. “V, I’m serious! Ugh, fine! I’m seeing someone.”

I sit up at that. “What?”

“Yeah, met her a month ago,” she smiles wistfully, sighing as if she’s already in love. “Wanted to tell you but everything was so crazy and intense, so I didn’t. So here I am, telling you.”

“Judy!” I move her spring colored fringe from her soft eyes. “That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, yeah,” she leans away from my touch, grinning shyly. “Her name is Moira. Her parents are Italian. She’s a great cook. She likes snuggling and hot tea. Think I’m gonna stay in Night City for her, see if there’s something there.”

I’m happy for Judy, but I can’t help but get a bitter taste in my mouth after her last comment. I begged her to stay before going to Arasaka, but she didn’t want anything to do with Night City anymore. She told me she’d leave in a month or less. I thought she changed her mind because of me, but it seems I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I wish you best of luck, both of you,” I say, still smiling steadily. “Maybe you’ll introduce me later.”

Judy smiles and pats me on the shoulder, then she gets a look on her face. “Wait, this reminds me.”

She bounces up from the couch and marches to the tech room. I watch as the beaded blue curtain shivers and rattles in her wake.

“Wonder what she wants,” Johnny says, disappearing from the kitchen area and reappearing next to me. He sets his feet on the table much like I had. I stare at his shiny Balmoral boots momentarily, wondering if I’d picked up the habit from him.

Wait, that’s ridiculous. I probably, definitely used to do it before I slotted him in. I shouldn’t be so paranoid about our psyches melding anymore.

Judy returns a while later with a prism-shaped machine as large as my arm. She places it on the coffee table, right through Johnny’s feet. He doesn’t budge.

She straightens with a huff. “Remember when you asked me for a sandbox braindance experience? You know, where you can do your own thing instead of following a tape?”

I swallow hard and ignore Johnny’s confused stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, V,” she says, giggling. “I know I’m not crazy. You stood right there,” she gestures to the open window, “all angry like, and said—I wish I can use a braindance to fuck around my own way instead of fucking around the way some BS director wants.”

I pretend to scratch my chin to keep from replying.

“Well, I got it working,” she puts her hands on her hips and looks proudly at her invention. “Took me weeks, but I got it done. You can use it to interact with a scene however you want. I had to reprogram many lines of code, then installed a couple bypasses. Then I extracted scenes from other tapes, removed the predetermined paths, and created a new control menu. You can switch between the scenes I bundled, change lighting and weather, mess with the sensation intensity settings, set the time, that sort of thing.”

“Um…”

“Your portable wreath alone won’t run it, it’s not powerful enough, while a full stationary BD system is a bit overkill for you,” she continues. “You’re gonna have to link it to this… I don’t know what to call it yet. Semi-portable Sandbox Kit? SPSK… Free… Freeality Box?”

“Judy…”

“Anyway, don’t forget to use safely, let the strobes sedate you completely, yadda yadda.”

“Judy…”

“Your construct might pop in and screw it up though, since you share the same nervous system and all. So be careful.”

“Judy! I was kidding!”

She raises a brow. “Didn’t seem like it.”

“I was! I was just…” I get the urge to glare at Johnny, but I ignore it, “…pissed, at something.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” she points at the machine. “Congrats, you’re now the proud owner of my newest Frankenstein.”

* * *

With a huff, I finally slide into the car after stowing the machine in the back. Johnny doesn’t waste a moment, glitching next to me with a frown.

“Looked into your head, V,” he informs, as if I don’t know he’s in there 24/7. “You asked your friend to go all mad scientist just to punch me inside a fucking braindance?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “How else am I supposed to punch you?” 

I thrust my hand into his neck for emphasis, and it slides right through, his skin morbidly wrapping around my fingers like water.

He barely reacts. “Your priorities are fucked.”

“Says the guy who decided to take a leak on stage because he was too late to the gig.”

He visibly tries to wrestle a smile. “Touché.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First to guess what the BD is for gets 3 bucks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV_3Dpw-BRY

The sky had turned orange with dust, a common occurrence at the tail of winter. I drive through the congested roads, studying the hazy lights beaming from the skyscrapers while I review what I’m gonna tell Camille in my head.

La Réponse is an exclusive club situated in the heart of Heywood, where the streets are chock-full of fashionistas who have replaced their bodies entirely with synthetic substitutes. I look around and see glowing bubblegum-colored hair, animated tattoos swimming across shimmering skin, LED jewelry, real leather shoes, light-up ponchos, face masks the color and texture of gemstones, and prototype implants that must be worth more than my kidneys.

I stop with a sigh at the entrance of the club, where a valet is waiting with his hands folded over his belly. There’s a massive line of impatient wannabes waiting to be allowed inside, probably indefinitely.

I fix the rearview mirror and look at myself, checking my eyeliner and blood-red lipstick. I’ve chosen to wear a tight black dress and my favorite combat boots, with Johnny’s Malorian visibly strapped to my thigh, an outfit that means I know how to relax, but not enough for someone to put a bullet through my head.

Johnny appears beside me, dressed in a white shirt, a dark-blue sports blazer and matching pants. He’s combed his hair back, allowing me to really look at his features for the first time. I wonder which memory he snagged this look from. I can’t think of any scenario where he isn’t dressed in mismatched, spiky punk outfits designed to turn heads, but maybe I’m not digging deep enough.

“What?” He looks down at his outfit. “Don’t tell me you’re the only one allowed to look nice.”

“No one can see you.”

“You can.” He winks. “I clean up good, don’t I?” He tugs his lapels for emphasis.

He’s ridiculous, but yes, he does look good. I take a moment to study his cheekbones, and realize the cuts and scratches from Arasaka aren’t there anymore. I quickly glance at his almond-shaped eyes, wrinkled at the corners from years and years of screaming harshly into microphones.

“Sure, you look nice,” I say curtly, eyes on the valet as he walks over.

“Miss Jeannin, you’re expected,” he says through the rolled-down window. “May I take your keys?”

I exit the vehicle and drop them in his waiting hands. “All yours.”

“And be careful with her, or else I’ll turn your trachea into a guitar pick!” Johnny exclaims as if the poor man could hear him.

Johnny and I walk side-by-side to the large, neon-framed door. The bulky suited bouncer moves to let me through without saying a word, not bothering to try and take my iron.

The club is predominantly purple, lit with neons cleverly tucked away from view, gradient LEDs ribbons, and crystal chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling. The air smells of coconut, sophisticated perfume, and alcohol-heavy cocktails.

The dance floor is crowded with tipsy, heaving club goers dressed in designer dresses and smart suits. The DJ is a figure swathed completely in black—even his head is wrapped with darkness. Think I’ve seen him before on TV… DJ Zéphyr, one of the best techno artists in the west coast. He’s currently playing one of his latest hits.

The second floor sits on rows of carved, gold-plated columns, where there are velvet booths filled with giggling girls and soft-faced men. I think that’s where I’m supposed to go, but I’d like to check.

“Gonna tell me how you managed to snag us access?” Johnny says, looking around.

I make my way to the ice-blue colored bar. “Wasn’t hard. Judy gave me the netrunner’s number, and I told her my name. She said she’d love to do business with me.”

“This club wasn’t here when I was alive, but I’m sure it’s not that easy to get into. Your name has weight, V,” he remarks with a proud smirk. “Did I ever tell you about the time where I got into Berghain with Samurai?”

“You didn’t tell me, but I know.” He’d spent the entire weekend candyflipping and screwing everyone he could get his hands on in the haze of the dark rooms, thrusting to the beat of hard techno. It’s an amusing memory, albeit extremely disorienting.

“Good times,” he says with a chuckle. “Maybe we could do it together some day.”

I feel a blush creep to my face at the implication. Which part does he mean? Partying in Berghain, or dropping acid and orgasming five times in a row together?

I shake my head and force myself to drop the matter entirely. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment.

I slide into a stool, waving for the bartender’s attention. Johnny doesn’t follow, walking over to the steel railings to watch the DJ.

The bartender walks over. “Miss Jeannin. I was told you were coming. What can I serve you? Free of charge, of course.”

I look at the shelves of aged, premium alcohol behind him, and decide it’s high time I had a damn drink. The last one I had was in the Afterlife before going to Arasaka, which seems like years ago.

“Sure, I’d like…” 

I want to order my favorite, a whiskey sour with no egg white. But one look at Johnny makes me remember the drink named after him, which I haven’t personally tried till this moment.

Fine, why the hell not. Let’s see what the fuss is about, if only to celebrate our survival.

I pluck the recipe from Johnny’s memory. “Aged tequila, a dash of orange bitters, agave nectar, and Mexican beer. Sprinkle some chili pepper in there, but not too much.”

The bartender squints. “Haven’t heard of that one, but I’ll make it.”

As he gets to work, I look back at Johnny. He’s still watching the party across, but I can see an ease to his presence. I’m pretty sure he heard me.

After the bartender places the mahogany-colored drink in front of me, I look at him.

“Where can I find Camille Cahun?”

“Miss Cahun is waiting for you upstairs, table three,” he points. “May I interest you in some hors d'oeuvre? I recommend the avocado and pesto roll-ups.”

“No, thank you,” I grab my drink and raise it to him, “I appreciate it.”

As the bartender leaves to the next customer, I take a sip. It’s tangy, spicy, with an undertone of bitterness, yet it’s smooth and refreshing, with a hint of a sweet finish. A perfect combination to represent him.

“Like it?” he asks, sliding into the empty barstool beside me with a look on his face.

“I’ve had better.”

“An acquired taste, you’ll get used to it.”

Again, just like him. However, I’m not sure if I’m used to him already, even after all we’ve been through. It’s hard to adapt to a dead guy’s ghost mounted in your head, spewing cheeky comments and anti-corporate one-liners every chance he gets.

Johnny tuts as he reviews my thoughts, but doesn’t retort.

* * *

I walk up to Camille’s booth, plush seats surrounding a round table full of half-filled shot glasses, crystal liquor bottles, shrimp cocktails, and empty airhypos. Her clique looks up at my arrival, abandoning a conversation about a swimming pool, a truckload of Conine, and thirty joytoys.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” one of them, a young woman with strawberry blond hair and more piercings than I can count, says to me.

“Careful, Armella,” another says as he puts his hand to his side, probably feeling for his iron, “That’s Dybbuk, a very well-known Ronin. My dad hired her to kill the CEO of Bishop Industries, she got into his building and took him down in thirty minutes.”

I’ll admit, that was one of the tougher contracts. Security was a bitch, and the bodyguards were eighty-percent chrome.

“She doesn’t look like much,” Armella says as she reaches for her piña colada, holding it as if it's a glass of vintage wine.

I ignore her and look at the woman sitting between the rest of her wide-eyed friends, and she stares right back. I quickly realize she’s an exotic—humans who chose to look like their favorite animal through implants and plastic surgery. Her lips are split, nose shrunk, eyes enlarged and tinted ocean blue. There are thin wispy fibers attached to her upper lips, forming whiskers. And her ears were chopped off completely, replaced by cat ears sitting on top of her head.

“Miss V Jeannin,” she says with a barely-suppressed French accent, “What a pleasure to finally meet you. I heard so much about you.”

“Only bad things, I hope?”

She grins, showcasing her fangs. “Is there another kind?”

I cross my arms. “I trust you remember what I’m here for.”

“Of course, how can I forget a call from someone like you?”

 _Someone like me_. That’s passive aggressive, a hallmark of wariness. Good, she’s afraid of me.

“Please, let us go somewhere more quiet,” she says, standing. Her friends move back to let her through, and she waves to them, “Don’t go anywhere, this will only take a minute.”

She begins toward a corridor in the corner of the club, and I follow. As she moves, I notice the bouncing black tail attached to the base of her spine, peeking out from a hole in her pressed breeches.

“Wonder how she would take a shit,” Johnny murmurs beside me. “Think she moves it to the side with her hand, or the bones they slotted in?”

I keep following her, eyes straight forward. “I’m pretty sure someone as rich as her skips shitting entirely.”

“You mean she shits through a bag? Sweats it out? Throws it up?”

I grimace. “ _Johnny_ …”

Camille continues through the corridor toward a closed door with a security panel attached.

“So, how’s Judy Alvarez?” she asks without turning.

I try to ignore her too-high, too-loud heels clicking on the brushed tiles. “She’s doing well.”

“Still in the braindance business?”

“Yep.”

“Shame.” She tuts. “I was sure she would find something more… eloquent. The last thing I heard, corps were fighting over her.”

“She’s not one for such…” I bite back a curse, ”…environments.”

She enters a code into the panel, 739269. I memorize it just in case. I've made a habit of that ever since another Ronin locked me in a storeroom for two days straight to steal my mark.

The door slides open and she walks into a wide, faintly-lit room that smells of chlorine and VOCs. The walls are overrun with beeping machines with constantly-winking lights. Tangled wires are everywhere, even across the ground, and they are all plugged into the base of a circular metal platform with a mermaid pillow on top.

Johnny hums. “Watch your step, V.”

Camille punches a few commands into a terminal fixed to the wall, and the lighting brightens. I squint as my implants quickly adjust.

“I heard you’re French,” she says as she moves on to the next terminal. “I don’t know many of us in Night City.”

“Only on my mother’s side, she was born in Marseille.”

“Parles-tu Français?”

“Oui… un peu,” mom made sure to teach me a bit, though not enough to hold myself in a discussion.

“That’s pretty hot, V,” Johnny teases. “Maybe we can have that discussion some day. After all, know just as much French as you do. I’m sure it’ll be hilarious.”

And I know just as many worthless serenades and cuss words as he does, a fair trade off.

Camille flips a few switches on a boxy machine sitting on a steel shelf. I hear a hissing noise from the largest machine—a skyscraper-like server about eight feet tall.

“We must always remember where we came from, especially in this city,” she says. “It has a way of stripping one of their identity.”

She’s right. I’ve forgotten what the hell I was doing before I came here. The flashy lights and utmost danger lurking in every corner makes Nevada seem dull and hollow, so much that it feels like a pre-birth purgatory.

“So,” she says as she settles on the pillow in the middle, “you said you’re looking for girls with the description you gave me?”

I nod.

“You know you can’t protect them all, right?”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” I say dryly. “But I’m pretty sure the info will protect many of the girls.”

“I wasn’t talking about the girls,” Camille says as she reaches for an impossibly-thick wire with a metal tip. “I was talking about the people of Night City. You’re doing God’s work, but you forget God’s work is hard, even for God.”

“I can’t just give up. I haven’t even begun,” I say, digging my nails into my palms. “People are dying and I can stop it, so why not try?”

“Are you sure you can?” she challenges, and I try my hardest not to think about it.

“Of course I can.”

She points the round tip of the wire at me as if she’s accusing me of an atrocity. “You are strong, we all know that. But sometimes strength isn’t enough.”

“I’m not _just_ employing strength.”

“Sometimes, all the tools in your toolbox aren’t enough.”

I exhale roughly and stare at her. “Could you please just do what I asked you to?”

She doesn’t seem offended by my outburst. Actually, she seems to look at me even closer, as if dissecting me. I shift my weight uneasily.

“Very well, but I won’t be part of your crusade, not for free anyway.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t expect anything less from a netrunner—a master of the binary underworld, a universe where nothing matters, not even time, not even life. The only thing that matters to them is getting more eddies to boost their bandwidth and add to their electronics collection.

“Plug me in, why won’t you?” she raises the wire to me with a smile, yet her eyes remain blank as if in thinly-veiled disdain. An expression that I’ve seen way too many times on the rich.

I take the wire and slowly insert the tip into a socket at the back of her neck. Johnny says something or the other about sex, but I’m too numb to laugh at it. Her comment about my wanting to help this city is gnawing at me. 

What am I supposed to do? Let the killer’s body count hike and hike until there’s a mountain of flower-encased corpses? 

Plus, I can’t let my dad go after this killer alone. Like it or not, he’s still family, one of the few I have left.

As Camille goes into her netrunner trance, I step back and wait. Johnny’s leaning against the wall under an out-of-place painting of an ocean, hung there in an attempt to break up the next-gen design of the room with a bit of quaintness. 

“Don’t listen to her, don’t listen to any of them,” he says, eyes hard. “We can help this city. I know it. One step at a time.”

I nod.

But I can’t help but question if my repertoire of skills, however impressive, is enough to stop someone like Chrysanthemum. If he was easy to take down, he would’ve been already.

* * *

I recount the info to Max. Eighty-two blond-haired, green eyed girls with no cybernetics. Only children, with both parents still alive.

“Good,” he sounds distant, and I hear him fiddle with electronics in the background. “Send me the tags.”

“Uploading.” I turn on my other side and bury my nose deeper under my duvet. “What about Maelstrom? Have you looked into it?”

At that, Johnny looks up from his position on the armchair in the corner of my room.

“No correlation. Our guy is most likely independent,” Max says.

I’m not surprised. It’s hard to find a partner in crime, even in this fucked up city, when your crime is making bouquets out of pubescent girls.

“Any new victims?”

Max clears his throat after taking a sip of something. “Not that I know of. His average is one or two per month, but I’ve noticed an increase as of late.”

“What? Why is that?”

“Not sure, maybe he’s getting bolder.”

Which wouldn’t be surprising, since no one deigned to stop him.

As the tags finish uploading, something beeps in the background. Max’s terminal. He’s probably one of the last people who don’t have neuralware or a personal link. He’s old fashioned, always been. He tried to raise me to hate chrome, but needless to say, he failed spectacularly.

“Right,” he says, humming as he studies the info.

“What are we gonna do with that?” I ask Max while I exchange glances with Johnny, who’s listening intently. “Are we gonna round them up and put them in some kind of turret-surrounded warehouse?”

“You still have a big imagination.” He chuckles to himself. “No, plan’s easier.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll inform the parents and have them take precautions. Then, I’ll provide a tube of hair dye to each girl.”

I sit up at that. “What? You plan to—”

“ _Ruin_ his models of choice with the color black, yes.”

Fuck. W-was he… inspired by my own change? I run my fingers through the black locks, but I don’t let myself think about it any more.

His plan sounds completely stupid, so stupid that it might just work. Sometimes, things _are_ that simple.

Just in case, I ask, “Don’t you think he’ll just ignore the blond hair and work with the rest of his criteria?”

“I don’t think that, I expect it. Though it’ll take him some time to adjust after he realizes there aren’t any girls left to victimize, which would grant us time to look for him.”

“That… actually might work.”

Johnny nods alongside me, leaning back in the chair.

“Meanwhile, there’s another task for you.”

I sigh, him and his tasks.

“I want you to contact the leader of the 6th Street gang, Will Gunner. I’ll send you his number in a few minutes. Don’t ask where I got it from, but if someone asks _you_ , tell them you got it from a man called Bernard Joy. We need Gunner's men to patrol Almunecar & Jerez and the other slums in case Chrysanthemum decides to hit again.”

I’m not sure how they’d be of any help. Else they would’ve done something about the killer already. But I suppose they didn’t know what to look for or where. I assume that’s where I step in.

“Aren’t they already patrolling their turf?” I ask.

“Not Almunecar & Jerez. It’s one of the least-patrolled slums in all of Domingo. I think 6th street thinks it’s too much effort to patrol when there are more important neighborhoods to worry about.”

I roll my eyes. They’re just as bad as badges, preferring to patrol richer neighborhoods inhabited with people and businesses that would pay better bribes and protection money.

“Plus, they’re busy dealing with a war with the Valentinos,” Max says, taking in a preparing breath. “Gustavo Orta, the leader of the Valentinos, sent a squad to whack Padre, the fixer in Heywood, for sending an assassin to kill him. They failed, Padre got 6th Street involved, and it snowballed from there. It’s a long story.”

My blood immediately turns to ice in my veins. I remember that contract. Orta was fucking one of 6th Street recruits, and her old man decided he didn’t like Orta’s heart beating, especially after his daughter got a bullet in her head.

“Orta is… alive? He escaped?!”

A pause. “You know him?”

“Oh, _fuck_ , V…” Johnny mutters, plucking an already-lit cigarette from thin air.

“We… I…” I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I didn’t just kill the bastard when I had the chance. “That assassin was…”

“Was it you?” Max says nonchalantly, seemingly unsurprised.

“I thought they took care of him! I can’t believe how stupid I am!”

The _one_ time I decide to go through a job without needless bloodshed, it comes back to bite me in the ass. I should’ve just put my blade through his blabbing mouth. Now he’ll surely chase me. That is, if he hasn’t already sent men after me and I’ve mindlessly bulldozed through them without noticing their allegiance. Or maybe the war is delaying the inevitable, and he’ll send someone to flatline me as soon as he finishes exchanging bitch-slaps with Gunner.

Great, just another enemy to add to the pile.

“Doesn’t matter now, it’s done,” Max says. “For now, we need their help. Try to convince them.” 

I almost laugh. “ _Right_. They would _love_ to listen to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Fuck. For all his expertise, Max can be so naïve.

“Hello? My bounty? They would literally love nothing more than to shoot me in the head.”

“Not if you offer them something better.”

I pause. “And what could possibly be better than three-hundred thousand eddies?”

“Your competence.”

I think about it for a moment, and Johnny chuckles at my bewildered expression. 

I rise from my bed and pad to the window. There’s an argument happening below—two willowy men fighting over some stim. They get into each other’s noses as they bark. The man on the right stabs the other in the shoulder, but he recovers and shoots him twice in the belly with a small Nokota.

I barely blink as the drugged-out man ignores the blood running down his arm, and bends down to snatch the stim from his dying friend’s pocket. Yeah, I think I know what Max means.

“You want me to run a job for them.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pECQK8ImFeQ  
> Just want to let you know that your comments/kudos put a smile on my face! :)

After finishing up with Max, I curl in my bed and try to rest. I haven’t slept in two days, and what I’d witnessed at the crime scene isn’t helping.

Bluish fingers, skin the color of clouds, bloodshot eyes staring up at the sun, flowers barely masking the sticky scent of death permeating the air.

Again, who could do such a thing? Who could view human life, more importantly the absence of it, as an element of art? This killer doesn’t merely kill, he’s not some corporat out for revenge or a crazed cyberpsycho that would plunge their mantis blades into their own mother. Killing’s his craft, his raison d'être. I’ve seen how meticulous his method is, how calculated. Every flower in its place. Every lock of hair positioned perfectly to match the rays of the midday sun.

Maybe Camille is right—maybe I’m not cut out for this. Chopping off the head of a rival corpo is one thing, but a serial killer that’s never even been seen?

I think about the crime scene again, and the memory of blood makes me remember…

“Quit it, V,” Johnny says, appearing on the other side of the bed with his ankles crossed and a line between his brows. “Get some shut eye. Thinking about it right now won’t do you any good.”

I turn in my bed to stare at him blankly. “The hell you mean? Thinking about the case will help me crack it.”

“Sure, but not right now. Plus, you forget I’m in your head. Know what you’re thinking about is mindless bullshit that won’t be of any help.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s not like I can turn off my thoughts, or else I wouldn’t be suffering from perpetual shadows under my eyes.

Truth is, I’m too spooked to sleep. I wouldn’t be caught dead saying it, but I am. Not just of the killer, but of Valentinos and bounty hunters and Militech and—

“Think about something else,” he offers casually, as if it’s so simple.

“Like what? The fact that half the ‘Tinos are probably looking for my ass as we speak?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, something else. Something unrelated to the filth that calls Night City home.”

I sit up in my bed and tilt the pillow to accommodate the new position. “Any ideas?”

He hums, crossing his arms. “Right, we’ll talk about it, then. Tell me about your childhood, what was it like?”

I scoff. That’s what he came up with?

“It’s about the next thing that gets you talking,” he answers my thoughts, “after work and its piling bullshit.”

“You already know everything, just look into my brain if you need a refresher.”

“Wanna hear it from you.”

“Why?”

“Cause it’ll get your mind off of things.”

“Is that so?” I have a feeling it’s because he wants me to address the thought that’s just occurred to me. I’m not going to, but… I suppose I can humor his desire to hear the sound of my voice.

I sigh lengthily. Where do I even begin? My memories are a mess. Sometimes, I can’t tell if any given memory belongs to me, or him.

“Start wherever you feel like. Won’t matter.”

I look at my legs, parallel to his on the bed. I fix my gaze there because I know I won’t be able to look him in the eye as I recite my tragic life story. I guess he’s like me in that regard—aggressive and boisterous as hell, but when it comes to facing our feelings, let alone talking about them, we’re about as good at it as a beat cop confronting Saburo Arasaka for his atrocities.

“Well, you know where I was born,” I start, recalling it all slowly. “Douglas County, near a lake that was once teeming with fish and beaver. Town was small and almost empty, and everyone knew each other, like one big family. We traded clothes and scrap for ammo and food with anyone who passed through, mostly nomads and people leaving California behind.”

“How was your family?” Johnny asks encouragingly after he noticed I stopped to muse about the apartment’s security.

I suddenly realize that I’ve almost forgotten my sister’s face, and I’ve fully forgotten my mother’s. And if my dad had gotten a light bodysculpt or a bunch of implants, I wouldn’t have recognized him.

“Bad, but not early on. First ten years were almost heaven, despite the BS all around us. Used to go out bright and early with my dad and sister to look for scrap while mom bargained with traders and cooked dinner with whatever she had on hand. Crazy shit happened every day, even in our small town, but I was too young to understand nor care.”

“And then?” Johnny asks, scooting closer until our shoulders are practically touching. I don’t react, but I do feel a bit of comfort from the physical touch, however faint and icy.

“Then it went to shit. Dad put on the blue, sister fucked off to become a suit, mom died, you know the story.”

“V, slow down. Take your time.”

I exhale roughly. I feel a lump in my throat whenever I allow myself to talk about this. I’ve only ever worn my heart on my sleeve in front of Judy and my ex, many years ago.

“Badges are near-absent from Nevada, and so my dad in all his mindless optimism decided to fill that niche, to fight crime,” I can’t help but laugh. “He signed up with the only sheriff department in a thousand-mile-radius. Crazy bastard.”

“Who were his targets in buttfuck nowhere? Coyotes and rattlesnakes?”

I snort. “Not the rattlesnakes, no.”

“Shame.”

“Gangbangers, delinquents, murderers, bandits, Raffens, you name it. We were at the mercy of it all.” I shake my head. “One day you’d have a house, a set of wheels, and a pregnant wife, the other you’d have nothing except the clothes on your back. We were lucky we were only robbed thirteen times.”

“So, not so different from Night City?”

“The more things change…”

“What about your sister?”

“My _sister_ ,” I spit out the word like an insult. “I’d rather call a crazy murderous tweaker my sister. Right when she turned nineteen she decided she had enough of us and climbed on the back of the first nomad’s bike that showed up. Haven’t seen her since, but I heard she ended up working for All Foods. That bitch abandoned us, abandoned me, when I needed her the most, just to bend over for a fucking executive.”

“Any idea why she left?” he asks, but there’s a lick of challenge in his voice, as if he’s testing me.

“Fuck knows,” I throw my hands up exasperatedly. “Maybe she hated me too much, hated Max, hated the grub, hated our neighbors, hated Nevada, hated everything that made up that place.”

“Like you?”

I whip to him, shocked at his accusation. “No, I left because I—”

“Had enough? Just like her.”

“ _Johnny_ ,” I warn, “she left because she couldn’t bear the thought of being a small town girl forever. I left because of…”

He waits for me, raising his brows, but I don’t continue.

He twists his mouth and gives me a once-over. “Because of what?”

I look away from him, staring out the window at the orange horizon peaking between the skyscrapers. “You already know.”

“Say it,” he urges, and I feel his cool hand on my thigh like a wakeup call. I swallow hard and try to ignore it. “You have to say what happened. You have to believe it, to let it sink in. Can’t deny it forever.”

“Don’t,” my voice cracks as I warn him. “Don’t do this to me. I thought you wanted to ease my anxiety, not kick it up a notch.”

“Talking about shit that happened to you would help you, it’s psychology 101.”

My chest shakes in a silent chuckle. “So you’re a shrink now? Johnny Silverhand—psychiatrist.” I move my hand in a sweeping motion. “Fee for one appointment is five grand if you’re male, two minutes of pussy if you’re female. Get a free STD if it’s your first time. Remember! Milfs have to pay double the price.”

“Not bad,” he quips, chuckling. “Truth is, I know it helps because I’ve had my ears drilled with the woes of chicks. Looked like they had a weight off their chest after.”

“Chicks?” I say, my nose wrinkling out of its own accord. “You’re comparing me to sluts you fucked?”

“No. I’m comparing you to humans, V,” he says firmly. “Aren’t you human?”

Fuck, I don’t even know anymore.

“Anyway, we need to work from the base, make our way up. Starting with what eats at you at night the most.”

“Talk won’t fucking solve it,” I mutter, “no matter what gonk cunts said to you to get more dick later.”

He sighs and takes his hand off my thigh. “Talking is a start. You have to move past denial to get to anger, to sadness, to acceptance.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like me if I get to anger.”

Johnny uncrosses and re-crosses his ankles, and the movement causes his shoulder to phase through mine. I shiver at the sensation, it’s as if an ice cube was inserted through a hole in my flesh.

“You’d be surprised,” he says with a smile softening his usually matter-of-fact tone. “Either way, have to move past this or else neither of us will get any fuckin’ rest. We’ll talk more when you’re ready.”

I doubt I’d ever be ready, but I don’t say so, and I don’t let the thought linger for him to grab it and read it like a fucking fortune cookie.

“I can’t sleep if there are people looking for me out there.”

Johnny groans, and I somehow feel it rumbling in my own chest. “I’ll wake ya up if I hear anything. Can stay conscious while you’re out-cold.”

I already know that, and it’s still creepy. He basically watches me sleep every night.

But I should be grateful that I’ve got my own security alarm implanted in my head. It’s like one of those expensive AI neural implants, though an extremely dickish one with a superiority complex.

“I heard that.”

I stifle a yawn and turn my back to him, wrapping myself in the duvet. “If you notice anything, do let me know.”

And he stays there beside me, using the background processes of my keen, artificial senses to watch the apartment, until I sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dyeFalOjw0

When I called Gunner, he almost laughed in my face before I name-dropped Bernard Joy. I don’t know who that is supposed to be, but it sure got Gunner to drop his tough-leader act and actually  _ listen  _ to my offer. As I waited in an area he designated, he sent one of his recruits to fetch me. I said nothing for the entire long ride, wishing I was somewhere else.

“We’re here,” the disheveled 6th street recruit mutters as the car suddenly stops.

“Can I turn on my implants?” I ask impatiently. He had me shut down my Kiroshis and my GPS implant for ‘security’, which means whatever this place is, its location is a secret exclusive to 6th Street members.

“Just the eyes, not the GPS,” he says and I hear him exit the beat-up Thorton. “And no tricks, either.”

With a grateful sigh, I restart the implants. It’s a horrible feeling, not being able to survey my surroundings for any possible dangers. My ears aren’t enough, not for someone like me with too many enemies to count.

The recruit is currently standing outside the vehicle with a half-bored, half-annoyed look on his face, as if his task stopped him from watching the latest episode of  _ Heywood Heyday _ . 

I get out and follow him up the path leading to the complex—a collection of buildings, tents, trailers, and fueling stations. It’s surrounded with a brick wall, topped with barbwire and patrolled by grizzled men.

Glancing at the area outside it, I see an arid, sandy landscape stretching for miles, sizzling under the sun. Must be the Badlands. Night City’s skyline is visible to the east, and I think I can pinpoint the location of their base through its distance from it. It’s either something they overlooked, or they simply don’t care that much.

“Watch yourself while you’re inside,” the recruit says as he lumbers forward to the largest building. “Any wrong moves and we’ll blast you to smithereens.”

“You’d throw a grenade at me? Wouldn’t that result in collateral damage including your boss?”

He turns to me with clenched teeth. “Don’t get smart with me. I’m the best gunslinger this fucking gang got.”

“I’ve no doubt,” I say dryly. “It’s probably why you klepped my weapons right when you showed up.”

I don’t even need weapons to leave a bloodbath behind. I can just reach for that gun he thinks he knows how to use, shoot him in the chest, hop behind the nearby crate and wait for that guard in the distance to come investigate, then lunge at him and grab his rifle, shooting him and the two men behind him, then I’ll grab his combat knife and—

“You’ll get them back,” he snaps. “For now, finish your damn meeting so I could get back to my squad.”

We make our way into the building, a hangar-like behemoth lit with harsh fluorescents and split into many rooms using tarps and hammered steel sheets that don’t reach the ceiling. It’s teeming with men and women in red, white, and blue.

I keep following the recruit to a sectioned-off room foggy with cigarette smoke and smelling of sweat and gun oil. There are four people, two working at terminals, one hunched over a cluttered coffee table, polishing a rifle, and the last behind a desk, nibbling on the tip of an unlit cigar. 

I assume that is Gunner. He’s a tank of a man, riddled with deep scars along his arms and across his face. After a quick scan, I realize some of them are self-inflicted, I don’t know if it’s because of PTSD or if he uses them to legitimize any fabricated stories he’d tell of the war.

There’s a weathered look to him, lines of age that makes him look wise and experienced, probably more than he actually is. He’s wearing a beige vest and camo pants, and too many holsters and belts holding shotgun slugs, EMP grenades, and a 1911 pistol. His dog tags are gleaming in my eyes, possibly polished and refurbished many times over until the inscription practically faded. He’s wearing them like a trophy, unlike Johnny, who wore them as a painful reminder of the horrors of conflict and the inflexibility of human nature.

“Boss, this is the merc that you wanted me to pull back here,” the recruit says, gesturing to me. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I roll my eyes. I’m not a merc. There’s a huge difference between a merc and a Ronin. Mercenary work is more-or-less temporary work, not because it’s the stepping stone to something greater, but because most mercs end up dead in a ditch in the first year.

“Nah, that’ll be all, son,” Gunner says as he puts down the cigar to look at me. I shamelessly look back.

The recruit hurries away. The men at the terminals pay me no heed, but the one cleaning the rifle stops to shoot me a curious glance.

As Gunner continues to assess me, Johnny appears behind him. “Be careful, V. Tell him only what he needs to know. Guy’s full of himself, thinks he’s entitled to everything because he served.”

I don’t comment that Johnny thinks—or to be fair, used to think—the same. He hears the thought anyway, and bristles.

Gunner grabs a cherry-red stress ball and begins to squeeze it idly. “So, let’s cut to the chase. Many people came by asking for favors over the years, but this one takes the cake. You want our help patrolling a neighborhood in our own turf?”

“Pretty much, yeah. I want you to refocus some of your men around the slums, specifically Almunecar & Jerez. Look for any disturbances like teenage girls disappearing, fake flowers being delivered, the sort of things we discussed.”

“And…” he drawls as he gives the ball a long squeeze, “…why would I do that?”

This is ridiculous. I can’t believe Max wants me to work with these clowns. “Because it’s your turf? Your people? You’ve been called the saviors of Santo Domingo, the force that replaced badges and brought some semblance of order to the district. Are you telling me you’d rather see your people die than spare a few men to protect them?”

“We  _ are  _ protecting them,” he leans back in his obnoxiously big, salvaged leather chair that probably belonged to some second-rate CEO. “Making sure the ‘Tinos end up in the dirt  _ is  _ protecting them. It’s protecting all of Night City. You have no idea what that scum would do if they take over. We’re not about to let that happen.”

I don’t protest at that, simply because 6th Street are keeping the ‘Tinos busy—keeping them off my back.

“I’m not asking you to send all of your men back to Santo Domingo’s slums, you can leave the majority at the borders of the district to fight your turf war. Just send enough to make sure no one shady is fucking up shit around the areas where the homeless congregate.”

He sighs and tosses the ball to the man who was cleaning the gun. “Listen, kid. You got heart, you remind me of myself when I was your age. But it’s not that simple. Our numbers are stretched thin, the ‘Tinos are breathing down our neck, and shipments keep disappearing. I can’t just leech from the squads at the front lines so we could look for one goddamn murderer in a slum that doesn’t fucking matter.”

To refrain from strangling him, I put my hands on my hips and squeeze. Fucking unbelievable, the gang’s supposed to protect their zone without an outsider asking them to, yet here I am, asking.

A glance at Johnny’s concerned face gives me an idea. I step forward and straighten in front of Gunner, much like one would be in front of their general.

“Hey, I know war is important to you. I know that it changed your entire life. I know that it’s traumatizing enough that it makes you want to end conflict right when you see it, using whatever means—”

“You don’t know shit,” he looks me up and down, making it a point to study my next-gen implants. “Kid like you has probably never seen active combat, let alone a war.”

He’s far from the truth. I’ve seen it, not with my own eyes, but through Johnny’s experience. I know that its a hell that stretches on endlessly, a prison for both mind and soul, a terrifying event that keeps soldiers up for years and has them jumping at the smallest noises.

And also, “I beg to differ. I might’ve not been in a war like you gentlemen, but I’ve been a Ronin in Night City for almost a decade. Think you know how that’s like, it can feel like a war at times.”

Gunner nods slowly, digesting my words with a tiny smile. “That is true. Night City has a habit of bringing out the worst in people.”

“I understand why you’re opposed to the idea, that you’re currently at war, but people are dying back home. They need you. They’re just little girls barely out of their teens, with hopes and dreams that aren’t yet crushed by reality. Give them a chance. I know that the homeless aren’t important to you because they’re useless and produce nothing, can’t even make for decent recruits. But they’re still your people.”

His eyes become mellow as a smirk appears on his face. “And you want me to help you out of the goodness in my heart, or are you still offering something in return?”

“Protecting the kids in your turf isn’t its own prize to you?”

He crosses his arms on his desk and maintains eye contact. “Not if I’m face to face with an opportunity. When you called, you offered to run me a job in exchange for my help.”

I grit my teeth, but make sure I keep my face blank. I can’t believe his audacity. I had to offer him a favor for him to listen to me, but he doesn’t even have the common courtesy to hide the fact that he’s using me. 

“What do you want?” I say, voice dripping venom.

He nods at the recruit behind me. The recruit stands abruptly, taking the rifle with him as he heads out the ‘door’. I tap my foot for two minutes until he shows up, this time dragging a bald, handcuffed, almost-naked man behind him.

The recruit forces the terrified man to the ground. The man whimpers and tries to get back up, but he gets a knee to the back for his trouble.

“Who’s that?” I ask Gunner above the noise of the man’s weeping.

“ _ That _ … is someone you have to kill,” he says, pointing. “Kill him, and I’ll give you the help you want.”

“That easy?” I expected him to ask for the head of some corpo or a drill Sargent that abused him as a recruit, but this?

“That easy,” Gunner says as he pulls out his 1911 from its holster, holding it by the barrel to offer me the handle.

“V…” Johnny starts.

“You didn’t tell me who he’s supposed to be,” I tell Gunner. “What did he do? Why do you want him dead? Can’t you kill him yourself?”

“No questions asked,” he states slowly, emphasizing each word. “That’s the moto for most Ronins that work in Night City. Least, the good ones. What kind of Ronin are you?”

“I need to know these details, it’ll make the job much easier for me.”

“Sure, but you only need such intel if you’re hunting him. But he’s right there,” he points again at the poor man, now with a ruddy face full of snot and tears. “Shoot him, and I’ll help you.”

“Fuck this shit, let’s just walk away,” Johnny grumbles, glitching out and reappearing at the exit as if he could leave on his own.

I stare at the colt, a timeless piece that stood the test of time, used throughout the 20th and 21st century by soldiers and vets. He could’ve given me any gun, but he’s asking me to use his on the man. Maybe it’s personal. Maybe the man on his knees is an asshole drill sergeant. Though he’s far too skinny and trembling to pass for one.

“Don’t want to? Fine,” he says, beginning to retract his hand.

I grab the handle before he could. He grins ear-to-ear as if he won the body-count lottery, and lets go.

“V, please don’t tell me you’re going through with this,” Johnny says, glitching right into my face.

I have no choice. I need Gunner’s help. Max is resourceful, and I’m capable, but we can’t take down Chrysanthemum on our own.

“He’s playin’ you!” Johnny exclaims. “Can you not see it?! This poor bastard will turn out to be the son of some fuckin’ suit and it’ll bring all of Corpo Plaza down on our heads!”

I move away from him and raise my arm, pointing the gun at the man’s forehead.

“No, please! Don't kill me!” the man cries, attempting yet again to free himself from his bonds. “Dybbuk, _please_ … I have a family. I—”

The recruit silences him with a punch to the nose, then yanks him back into position.

“Are you really going to murder an innocent person just for a slim shot at saving another?” Johnny asks. 

A laugh slips out of me before I could stop it, and Gunner understandably looks at me as if I’m crazy. How dare he say this to me? He leveled half of the fucking city thinking it would save lives, yet it ended up killing more people than I ever will. How dare he lecture me about morality or methodology?

“Thing is,  _ V _ , I’ve changed,” he says it like a boast, as if he’s expecting a pat on the back for having an ounce of remorse for his terrorism. “Can’t believe you’d use this as ammo. Can’t believe you think so little of me, and I’m in your—”

Yes, I know. You’re in my head, we fucking get it. And I wish you could just fuck off out of it. Ever since you waltzed in all you did was yap about shit you don’t get, insult girls who had to sell their bodies to survive, and force me to pick up smoking. I’m done with your BS.

He opens his mouth to retort, but the rest of my tirade just spills out, hard to stop in the toxic waste that is my addled mind.

First you have the audacity to invade my mind, then you start spreading across my neurons like a fucking fungi, and now you’re telling me what to do as if you’ve ever done anything right?

I wish I hadn’t fucking cured us. I wish you’d died and left me the hell alone.

He stares at me, dumbfounded, not finding the will to look as enraged as I feel he is.

I chew my lip and avoid his glare, instant regret flooding my system.

“Any day now,” Gunner says, oblivious to us.

“Want me gone? I’ll fuckin’ go, V. Won’t bother you again,” Johnny spits out, limbs already glitching out of focus. “One day you’ll need someone to lean on and you won’t find them, ‘specially not me.”

He fades away like a mirage. The last I see of him is his hard eyes.

I shoot.

The sound echoes in my skull. The building becomes quiet. The man’s eyes roll back, and he falls, blood already seeping from the hole right between his eyes.

I can hear myself breathing roughly. I can hear my own heartbeat. I can hear the ringing in my ears. I can hear it all. I stare at the recruit’s sand-colored pants, now splotched with blood.

The bustle of the building returns. Gunner suddenly claps, and I practically jump an inch.

“Good job, thought I’d be sitting here for a year,” he says, laughing alongside his men. “You’re much slower than I expected. Are you sure you’re not an impostor, and that the real Dybbuk is sleeping on the ocean floor?”

I toss the pistol on the desk. “Are you gonna help me now?”

He holsters the gun then sits back in his chair with a filthy look on his face, as if he’s just pulled off the biggest heist in history. “No, you still didn’t do what I want you to.”

“What?!” I shout, all my hair standing on end. “What the fuck do you call this?!” I point at the pool of blood creeping toward me like decay.

He eyes the corpse nonchalantly. “That was a test. I needed to make sure you’d follow your orders, that you won’t stab me in the back with that katana of yours.”

I slam my hands on the edge of the desk and squeeze, and the wood shatters between my metallic fingertips. The three recruits point their guns at me, but I don’t spare them a glance. 

“Oh, that sounds like a great idea right about now,” I snarl.

His expression doesn’t change. “Relax, I still want to help you, after you do what I actually want.”

“You lied to me,” I state, eyes unblinking. “You fucking…” he played me, just as Johnny said he would. It wasn’t the exact way he proposed but it doesn’t matter. He smelled Gunner’s bullshit a mile away, and I told him I’d rather if he’d died.

Oh my fucking god… what the fuck have I done?! He left me, he fucking  _ left  _ me! We went through hell together and he… he told me he’d never show up again!

As my eyes well and adrenaline stirs under my skin, I fix my glare at the outline of Gunner, already calculating how to flatline him in ways he cannot even imagine.

“What I want is very simple,” he continues as if I said nothing.

“You know I can take down everyone in this room in less than a minute, right?” I rasp. “I don’t even need to look at your men to drop them. I don’t need a single bullet. There is no way you can stop me.”

He points with a grin. “ _ That _ is what I’m looking for. That’s the Dybbuk that drove Night City’s scum into the gutter. Listen—”

“How do you expect me to trust you? How do you expect me to let this go?!”

“Simple—you need my help,” he says, putting an arm behind his head and smiling like the viper he is. “Flatline me, and you won’t have it. Flatline me, and there’d be nothing standing between the ‘Tinos and you.”

Motherfucker. I want to punch him so hard he’d be shitting teeth for weeks, but miraculously, I hold back. I swallow my rage, my regret. I ignore the emptiness I already feel inside me.

Do it for them, V. Do it for the innocent girls dying at the hands of a monster.

“I want you to kill Orta. He dies and Valentino morale drops, his squad leaders become headless chickens, Padre would be happy enough to aid us, and we’d end this war quickly. It’s a win-win situation, there’s no better request I can make.”

I swallow hard. I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve known his original request was too insignificant. I’m so damn stupid.

Yet, I can’t argue with the fact that it’s truly the best possible course of action. It works to my advantage, too—crippling the ‘Tinos means they have less resources to try and flatline me.

“Remember,” he warns with a smile, “you started this war when you failed to put Orta six feet under. Your orders were to flatline him, but you shoved him in a trunk instead.”

I’m too pissed to defend myself reliably, so I say nothing.

“Do you have intel on Orta’s location?” I ask, watching my fingers tremble on his cracked desk. It’s not like I can ask anyone else for help, no one else has the manpower or foothold these assholes have in Santo Domingo.

“Of course. We’d have him by the balls if not for the number of men we’d lose if we decide to attack his base.”

I raise a brow. “And you want me, a lone Ronin, to achieve what an army of vets can’t?”

He chuckles mockingly, eyeing me with an evil glint in his eyes. “Word on the street is that you’re one of the best Ronins in Night City, that you’d be able to infiltrate the fucker’s temp base like you did his apartment. Is it all wrong? Are you a wimp hiding behind a fancy katana and cybernetics one can’t afford without selling their soul?”

I can’t say nothing to that, my reputation is all that keeps me afloat. It’s what stops idiots from ruining my Sunday with a lousy, badly-aimed grenade. It’s what drives fixers to assign me the toughest, most profitable jobs. It’s what keeps my head on my shoulders. “I assure you, what they say is true.”

He smiles, relishing that he managed to hit me where it hurts. “Then I suppose we have a deal. Flatline Orta, and you’ll have our help for three months.”

Three months. Not nearly enough—Chrysanthemum might take a break after Max ruins his pool of victims, which would render the gang’s aid pointless—but it’s better than nothing.

Chrysanthemum  _ will  _ hit again, it’s just a matter of time. And we’d be powerless to stop it. Three… two people can’t pull this off on their own, we have to employ others.

“Deal. Let’s get this over with. Where is Orta?”

Gunner nods to one of his netrunner recruits, and the chromed-out man lowers his gun, rips himself from his stool, walks over and hands me a data chip.

With a sigh, I plug it in and study the map that comes up. 

“He’s holed up with his men in that megabuilding near El Coyote, taking up three floors,” Gunner says as the map zooms into the massive building housing hundreds of thousands of people, packed in tiny apartments like sardines. “‘Tinos kicked everyone out except those with a gun and enough stupidity to want to fight for them. Orta fed them bullshit about losing their families, homes, and cars if we won. Got himself a whole crusade.”

“Why a megabuilding?” I ask. It’s an odd spot for a wartime base.

“It’s close to the district border, near a couple of bridges connecting Glen and Arroyo,” he explains. “Plus, he can use the citizens he sandwiched himself between as armor. He knows we can’t rush into the megabuilding guns blazing, collateral will have corpos and badges raining down on us like a shitstorm.”

“And that’s why you want only  _ one  _ person to sneak in there…”

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” he quips, knowing that I can’t do shit about it. “Go on, do what you do best.”

As I leave the complex in the back of the same Thorton, I have a lot of time to think about what Gunner said. _ Do what you do best. _

Until today I’ve never realized, never really admitted to myself, that murder is just as essential to me as it is to Chrysanthemum. He views it as an art form, I view it as work. Neither are acceptable.

He’s more gruesome and inhumane, yes, but murder is murder. It’s ending a life prematurely, watching it drain out of terrified eyes and staining your hands red forevermore. It doesn’t matter if the victim is innocent or not, it doesn’t matter if you despise them or love them, it doesn’t matter if you have to do it, if the hope for a better future lies in the death of one man, or not. 

Murder is murder.

We’re not so different.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jix-u8h4KEU

I park near El Coyote, a dive bar located in the Glen. As I stare at the golden neon sign bearing the bar’s name, I can’t help but remember Jackie. Once upon a time we used to hang out here, downing shot after shot while arguing about our latest gig.

We met two years after I weaseled out of Militech. I was back to being a street Ronin instead of a corpo Samurai. Fixer had assigned him as my partner. And although I was dismissive of his Valentino affiliation at first, we quickly meshed together and finished the gig with flying colors, and it snowballed from there. Took us a few months to arrange the ‘grand heist’ we dreamed of, and the rest is history.

I sigh. I can’t believe how fast things change. One day we’re doing gigs together and earning a name for ourselves, the other…

He’d been my only friend around this stinking city, before I met Judy, Vik, Misty, Panam, and— 

Johnny…

I feel his Malorian against my thigh like a hot poker. I pull it from its holster and run my thumb across it as if I’m soothing it. It’s a dazzling piece, silver like his arm with a sleek reddish grip and a hole that spurts propane fire if needed. It can blow a massive hole in someone’s head without breaking a sweat, and can set things on fire better than a flamethrower.

It’s been at my side ever since I picked it up. He, of course, noticed that, teasing that something of his is always touching me.

Fuck, I miss him already.

I shouldn’t have let my feelings take over, but it’s hard when he’s right alongside my unfiltered thoughts. It just takes one second, one second where I lose my grip on a thought, and it slips out to him…

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell where his psyche begins and where mine ends. There’s a paper-thin wall between us—one of those feeble, barely-insulated drywall monstrosities found in prefab homes. You can often hear your neighbors talking, fighting, crying, having sex, and they can hear you doing the same. At some point, the noise finally breaks you and their troubles become yours, their pain, their sadness, their joy…

It’s not much different with Johnny—his regrets are mine, my joys are his. One day my psyche takes over and I feel like punching him in the stomach for all the crimes he committed, and he eagerly joins in, and it becomes a little game of self-flagellation. The next day, his psyche takes the stage, and by his influence, I begin to see the good in him, praising him left and right as he basks in it. It’s exhausting, not knowing what day it’s going to be.

I grip the handle and close my eyes, stopping tears from escaping. He might be simultaneously one of the worst and best things that ever happened to me. But either way, he’s a part of me, and I’m a part of him.

I take a preparing breath.

“Johnny?”

Nothing.

My fingers start to tremble around his piece. I tighten my grip to stop it, and try again.

“Johnny? Please…”

Nothing. Nothing but the overwhelming sound of the city outside the vehicle.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and sniff. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Could you please come back?”

Nothing happens.

I swallow hard and slide the Malorian back into its holster. Fine, I don’t need him, I can do this alone.

I can, I’m built for it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a suicide mission, I’ve been through such before. Look at me now.

I move the car into an alley until I’m hidden from view, and prepare.

* * *

When night falls, I creep around the megabuilding and find the entrance to the underground parking area. I lean out from cover to take a look. Not many vehicles seem to be getting in nor out, possibly because Orta had issued a general lockdown on the building. There are two men standing guard, both have Kang Tao rifles loose in their grips, but one has his eyes heavy with sleep, the other alert as they come, glare searching the horizon for any would-be intruders.

The Taos might be an issue. One pull of the trigger would send the bullet flying to any body part they manage to tag, no aiming needed. I’ve always hated those damn guns. These days, it doesn’t matter if you’re a good shot, what matters is the amount of eddies you can shell out. Pay to win, real life edition.

I hug the short stone fence as I go around it, emerging behind the guards. I sneak into position, making sure I’m in the CCTV’s blind spot. I unsheathe my katana and plunge it into the back of the closest guard, and at the same moment, I kick the other behind the knee, forcing him to the ground.

As the first guard yelps like a dying animal and tries to comprehend what happened, I kick the rifle from the other’s grip. It flies in the air and slides beneath a parked Thorton truck. I yank the blade from his back and swipe it across the other’s neck, and blood spurts out, covering the sleeve of my jumpsuit.

Making sure they’re flatlined with a quick scan, I look through the folds of their vests, and find an elevator pass attached to a lanyard. Pocketing that, I drag them both to a cluster of thick bushes in large stone planters.

I take one look at the small pools of blood and the streak marks leading to the small garden, and realize I have to move quickly.

I could’ve hired a netrunner to generate me the layout of the building and any possible secret entrances, but there was no time. And I’m sure they would’ve asked for a favor in return which would lead to another damn job.

I scan the massive garage and tag all the cameras. I make my way to the elevator nestled at the end of it, making sure I’m out of view, rolling under vehicles and hiding behind columns whenever needed.

I let the panel scan the pass, and press for the 42nd floor, the middlemost of the three floors Orta has taken over. I’m guessing he’d be there, buried in the largest apartment he could get his hands on, surrounded by goons and expensive weapons from all sides. I might not be able to sneak past if his men are concentrated in one area. I feel for Johnny’s gun just in case.

The elevator ascends and I stare through the chain link behind at the crowded ground floor, steadily shrinking. I exhale quietly. Maybe Johnny’s not here, but I know he’s watching. It makes me feel safe, regardless of whether I have his support or not.

When the elevator stops and the rusty metal gate creaks open, a Valentino gangster prepares to walk in. Stifling a gasp, I grab him and pull him against me, putting my hand over his mouth before he could react. He wriggles and chokes, kicking his legs in an attempt to free himself. I drag him to the corner and slide my blade through his chest, piercing his heart. I drop him, press -23 on the panel, and duck out before the gate closes.

I wince when I realize I should’ve stayed in and dragged him under a car, or something. Fuck, I’m getting dangerously sloppy because of my impatience.

I crouch behind a bunch of metal crates and look around. The 42nd floor is a typical one you’d find in a megabuilding. Despite it being an open-air atrium, it smells perpetually of rotting trash, fake fried clam strips, clogged toilets and mildew. The floor is stained with mud and garbage juice, and the walls are tagged with sugar skulls and lewd, anti-corpo phrases.

It’s also swarming with ‘Tinos. Men and women with edgy tattoos peeking beneath short, rockabilly-esque outfits. They’re all armed—pistols and throwing knives and sniper rifles and sheathed mantis blades—and decked-out in as many cheap bio-enhancing implants as Arasaka produces in a year. I let my Kiroshis tag them. Thirty-seven in all, but most of them mediocre. Orta must’ve placed his second-rate goons in the megabuilding, preferring to send his skilled top fighters to the front lines. This, of course, makes my job easier. 

Except for a few cooks busy at work behind ramen and BBQ stations, none of the original inhabitants seem to be around. Orta must’ve banished them to the lower and upper floors, crowding the tiny, filthy apartments further.

At least there would be no collateral damage. I can just fight through them all if needed.

I activate my wall-penetrating scanner and survey the many apartments. There are fifty-two, most of them empty. There are a few apartments where figures are moving around tables, cleaning guns or counting ammo. Ariana Guillén, Miguel Espiga, Korbin Chang… Nope, not my prey.

I let my implants scan the floors above and below. Nothing but the same. Orta is nowhere to be found. Fuck, he must be out of the megabuilding all-together. Maybe he flies away occasionally by AV to check on his men, though I don’t expect it from a wimp like him. When I was sent to kill him the first time, I had to plow through nine of his gangoons while he sniveled in his gold-plated office.

Before I could find an obscure spot to camp and wait for him, the elevator whirs to life.

Still crouched, I quickly move behind the counter of an unmanned clothes kiosk, putting distance between me and the elevator. That was quick.

The elevator reaches 42 and Orta stomps out, accompanied by four of his men in a turtle formation around him. He looks positively pissed, yet his laser-defined goatee, inhumanly-smooth skin, weird patterned eyes and designer suit makes him look as threatening as a hare.

“Alright, which one of you _idiotas_ is not doing his _fucking_ job?” he barks, and everyone pauses their conversations to look at him.

“What happened?” one of them, a man in plaid, dares to ask.

“What happened?!” Orta screams, pushing one of his guards away to reveal the body slumped in the elevator. “This is what happened!”

At that, the gangsters reach for their weapons simultaneously, gazes already darting about. I watch their outlines through my implants, staying still.

“Someone is in the fucking building,” Orta says, stepping forward to a group of ‘Tinos with their legs up on a liquor-infested table. “Get off your ass and start looking, or you’re out.” He points at three standing near a Spunky Monkey vending machine. “You, _pendejos_ , take the elevator to ground floor. And _you_ …” He points at a bearded, muscled man. “I don’t have to tell you what to do, you already fucking know. Get going.”

I watch them disperse and make their way to their duties. Several of them pile into the elevator and head to the lower levels. A few others take the stairs to 43 and 41. The rest, two dozen of them, begin to patrol the floor half-heartedly, as if they haven’t yet registered the possibility of an intruder so deep in their base. 

I flatten myself against the counter as two men pass in front of it, huge rifles swinging at their backs.

After he makes sure everyone is doing what they’re supposed to, Orta marches to the east, eyes fixed on a particular apartment. He steps over empty ammo crates and discarded vodka bottles, and shakes his head, muttering to his guards about laziness and stupidity.

When I make sure no one is looking, I hurry behind another kiosk, one that serves synthetic meatballs on ‘rice’. I look through the steam wafting from a pot at Orta, following his movement. He and two of his men enter the apartment, leaving the door open. The other two stay on either side of it, keen eyes scanning the area.

I pray that my infrared masking implant is still functional, and creep closer, positioning myself behind a broken sex toy vending machine. I can cause a distraction to the north, throw an empty bottle against that hanging pot… Or maybe I could grab that rifle, shoot the two women at that table, duck under the sniper’s bullet, turn around, shoot him between the eyes, duck again—

“Holy shit!” someone screams behind me, and I whip to take a look. “I found—”

My blade is in his gut before he could finish the sentence, but it’s too late, the women I planned to start with have noticed. The cry out something in Spanish and the rest of the floor take notice and hurry to their position. 

They take aim and I roll away from their bullets, yanking the blade out in the same movement. I hop over the table and lunge at the first, digging my blade into her shoulder, then her neck while I pull out the Malorian to blast the other’s head from under my arm.

I duck under the table as another three rush forward, pulling the triggers of their pistols. I activate the tagging system of my implants and pinpoint the bullets. I weave through them, moving as fast as I can to the lined gangsters. As I slice the neck of one, another curses, drops his pistol and pulls out a combat knife, seemingly out of ammo. Before he could lunge at me, I shoot his friend twice and kick his body toward him, then as he falls back, I shoot him.

Five more march toward me, blocking my view of Orta’s apartment. They start shooting in tandem, and I slide behind the nearest vending machine. I inhale to calm my heartbeat as their bullets collide with the metal, obliterating it. Sparks fly around me and I place my head between my knees, making sure nothing connects. When they finally begin reloading, I lean out of cover and shoot, flatlining three of them.

“Flush her out!” one of them shouts as I move back into cover.

I instantly whip to see whatever they plan to do. One of them now has a frag grenade in his grasp, pin already out. He sneers at me and throws it. His friend tries to shoot the grenade as it sails in the air to have it blow up in my face, but fails miserably. He begins shooting at me instead. I lean back into cover.

Holding my breath, I tag the grenade through the vending machine, using its smart-explosion mechanism. I track its red outline, and snatch it as it reaches me, and with all my might, I throw it back to them.

It explodes with a quake that practically shakes the building, and I hear the pair screaming like dying cats. One peek confirms my suspicion—most of their limbs were torn off by the explosion, and blood is sputtering from the stumps and pooling under them. Eventually, they still.

I stand away from the vending machine and stomp to the apartment. Orta’s bodyguards rush out, two of them kneeling to get a better shot at me. The four of them begin to fire their rifles, and I force myself to a half-crouch, darting to a table and flipping it on its side for cover. I watch as the smart bullets graze the edges of the plastic, losing momentum as they try homing toward me.

“Kill her!” Orta screams somewhere behind them, firing his own gun haphazardly. “Fucking kill her!”

As the bodyguards stop to reload, I inhale a sharp breath, hold it in, and peek over the table to fire at them in quick succession, letting my implants guide my hand according to the distance, air resistance, and the temperature they calculated.

I manage to headshot three of them, grazing the fourth’s temple.

As he panics and tries to insert the magazine with shaking hands and a swimming head, I slide the Malorian back to my side and bounce out of cover, katana at the ready. I’m before him in seconds, blade raised above my head. I’m so sure of his death that I fail to notice that he’s finished reloading. He manages to fire one shot before I could stab him. Pain erupts in my right shoulder, and I yelp, grip faltering. The blade slits open his cheek instead of going clean through his forehead.

The explosive pain makes it almost impossible, but I stay on my feet, clutching the injury where the bullet has exited from the other side. Fuck… It’s gonna be a lot harder to deal with.

I stare up at the bodyguard, noting blood weeping from his cheek like tears. Bemused, he raises his rifle until the muzzle is resting on my chest. He tries to pull his trigger, but looking down, he suddenly notices he can’t move his finger.

I breathe in and out, trying to force the pain out, but it clings on. I watch him fall to his knees in front of me, wide eyes full of horror as the neurotoxin begins streaming through his veins, paralyzing him.

He drops to the ground, rifle falling out of grasp. His eyes remain open as his mouth twitches, trying to formulate words, a scream, anything, but he’s almost dead to the world.

I look up at Orta, who’s cowering at the apartment’s door, staring at the dying man. His gun is aimed toward me, but fear seems to have seized his muscles as much as the neurotoxin did to the poor bastard at my feet.

He gulps, backing away into the apartment as I begin to walk toward him, a pissed look on my face. This mission proved too much trouble than I’d expected. I didn’t exactly expect smooth sailing, but all these men? All these precautions? A bullet wound?

I grit my teeth and let go of my injury, gripping the katana with both hands. Orta fires, but his fear makes it easy for me to block the bullet with my blade. I do the same to his other attempts, and he tosses his gun, raising his hands in surrender.

“Look, do you want money?” he says, voice wavering. “I-I… I have a lot of money. Ronins like money, right?”

“Not today, no.”

His foot catches in a stray cardboard box and he stumbles, quickly scrambling back to a stand. “What… what about a position in my gang? I’ll give you a car, a villa! You’d be my right hand ma… woman!”

I scoff, stalking toward him. “Not interested. I’m interested in finishing what we’ve started.”

He swallows hard at that, and cringes as his back hits the window behind. He peers at the distance, wondering if he could somehow jump out and survive.

“Face your death with some dignity, asshole. Act like a man even if once in your life.”

His hands turn to fists as I insult him, air coming out of his nose like a bull. “I bet we can reach an agreement, just like last time.”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “You’re a slippery bastard. I won’t give you another chance to run.”

Just before I get into range to stab him, a migraine-like pain assaults me, turning my vision bright and pressing on the bones of my face like an anvil. I cry out, katana slipping from my hand as every muscle in my body becomes taut. I collapse to my knees, limbs shaking as the pain swirls and branches down my spine, gnawing at my neurons like acid.

I try to look around, but it seems like my implants were tampered with. What the fuck is happening? I try to move my hand to my head, but it only twitches.

Screams continue to claw their way out of me, turning my voice hoarse. I scramble to restart my implants, but they don’t respond to my command, as if they’re no longer connected to my brain.

I faintly notice Orta’s harsh cologne as he makes his way around me, fleeing. When I try to crawl after him, I fall on my chin. My teeth grind together as I try to blindly clamber out of the apartment, the movement causing my shoulder to burn like fire. The migraine continues, the pain settling in my stomach and I almost retch.

Just when I feel like I’m gonna pass out from it, I hear a distant voice.

“V!”

I wrestle through the red-hot pain to make sense of it. Who would be calling my name right now? Is it Orta? Judy? Vik?

“It’s me! It’s me!”

It’s… Johnny. I can’t see him, and I can barely hear him, but I feel his presence like a bath of ice, numbing my pain.

“It’s a netrunner, he’s hacked into your implants,” he quickly explains. “Hold on, I’ll stop him.”

I could’ve sworn I felt his hand on my forehead somehow before his presence fades, departing through the network to halt the netrunner. Despite my weakened state I think about it anyway. Johnny can go through the network? How? Since when? He mentioned being able to reach parts of our brains he couldn’t before, plucking food or clothes or items from our memories as if he’s cutting them out of a magazine. But the network?

All at once, the pain seeps out of my head as if extracted through a syringe. I inhale air greedily as I feel a weight lifting off my chest. I stop bitting my bleeding lip as my vision returns and I see Orta. He’s stabbing the elevator’s panel with his index repeatedly, dancing on his feet as he waits for it to come up already.

“Get up, V,” Johnny urges somewhere behind me.

And I do. I push myself up to a stand with my still-shaking hands. I don’t go back for my katana, I simply creep toward Orta with murder in my eyes.

When he sees me, he backs up against the elevator doors, feet scrabbling for purchase. His eyes flit to the emergency exit in the far corner as if finally remembering it, but I stand in his way. He opens his mouth to say something, probably to strike another pathetic deal, but I don’t hear it.

It takes a millisecond to register a large hole in his forehead. 

Then I hear the sound. It rings in my ear, almost triggering another headache.

I look down, and I don’t find the Malorian in my holster.

I find it in my left hand, the arm that once glistened with the silver ghost of Johnny’s implant when I’d allowed him to take over my body. I haven’t consciously thought of shooting Orta, but I felt it happening in the back of my mind, a background command, like breathing or swallowing.

I look to my left, and I see Johnny in all his glory, his left arm raised in the same way toward Orta, the same Malorian in his hand.

His hair is swept back and his eyes are hard and his muscles are all tense and _oh God_ … I missed him so much. We simultaneously lower our arms and look at each other. I feel my heart squeeze and my eyes stinging with tears as I search his, but I hold back.

“Johnny…” I wheeze through the lump in my throat, but I don’t continue, unsure of what to tell him, even though there’s so much.

But being us, I don’t need to say anything. He gets it just by looking at me, just by being near me. He knows I’m more sorry than I could ever put into words. He knows that I’m elated that he’s back. He knows that I’m thankful for him saving my life. He knows that I think we’re a team, inseparable, together always.

And I know he thinks the same.

I ignore the pain still pounding at my shoulder. I ignore the sound of approaching footsteps. I simply look at him, taking him in, letting myself get lost in the soft gaze that he never shared with anyone else.

And I smile.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he looks at me, knowing everything that I’m thinking.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, V.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ecBQkA09AA  
> Warning: NSFW

“Sure you don’t want me to help?”

I sigh, staring at Johnny behind me through our reflection in my foggy bathroom mirror. “I got it.”

“Don’t look like you got it.”

To make a point, I try again to dab the exit wound with medicine-drowned bandages. I suck in a breath as it burns like a hot coal.

“You’re not reaching all of it,” he says, watching me. “You can’t see it.”

“I’ll get another mirror.”

“I’ll be faster.”

I curse under my breath and drop my hand. Fine, he can do it if he wants to so badly.

“Hey, just wanna help,” he says, already taking control of my left arm, his own arms staying crossed.

“It feels… awkward.” Just as it always had when he took over my body all these days ago. I was asleep for most of such incidents, but toward the end and the beginning, I was almost aware yet out of control, as if paralyzed, watching my body move out of its own accord. It was very distressing.

He hums as he listens to my thoughts. “It’s just your arm, V.”

He guides said arm to dab at the wound effectively, cleaning what I’ve missed. I flinch and close my eyes as the medicinal bite lingers.

“How does it look, Doc?” I say between his touches.

“Looks like it’s stopped bleeding. We just need to bandage it.”

With my free hand, I grab a roll of bandages and shove it in his direction, before I remember I should be handing them to my other hand. Fuck, this is confusing.

He snorts at that, shaking his head.

He finishes cleaning the wound, tossing the bloody rags in the sink, and I give him the roll. He tries to unroll it with the hand under his control, but I put mine over it, stopping him.

It simultaneously feels as if I’m holding his hand and mine. I pause at the perplexing sensation, it’s as if I’m passing a pen between my crossed fingers. I momentarily wonder what it would feel like if I could _actually_ touch his hand.

I drop the thought immediately, hoping it failed to reach him. He doesn’t react, but I have a feeling it did.

Together, we awkwardly work the bandages. Him holding the roll tightly, me unfurling it bit by bit. He takes the long strip and begins laying it over my shoulder, asking me to hold it in place as he pulls it around and under my armpit.

When we finish, I turn, shameless as he glances at my exposed chest. He’s seen it all already, not only in my memories, but when I take a shower or change or any action that requires various states of undress. It would be futile to hide from him, pointless even.

“Thank you,” I say, offering a smile.

“Next time, be more careful,” he scolds, hand twitching at his side as he resists trying to move the hair from my eyes. “There are lives on the line, plural.”

“That so? Yours and mine?”

“Those poor girls. Know that we’re the only ones that can help them.”

I sigh as the crisis at hand slips back into my mind. I’d almost forgotten it because of pain and exhaustion. And truth be told, I’m not glad that it’s back.

My shoulders slump as I think about my call with Gunner. He didn’t betray me like I’d expected, offering me the patrols he promised, but he wasn’t exactly happy with the way I handled the job.

 _You’re supposed to be a ghost. That’s what they said about you_ , he said.

If it was just a random job for eddies, I would’ve waited a while, looked at the building’s layout, counted the enemies more thoroughly, planned according to exits and entrances, called for a getaway vehicle…

But it’s hard to be a ghost when I feel the clock ticking at all times, urging me to hurry through whatever is needed to protect the girls from certain death.

Oh, well. Whatever. What matters is that I was successful.

I move to my bedroom and Johnny follows, closing the door behind him with a silent command. I raise a brow at that, still surprised that he could interact with the network.

I guess it’s because I can do it through my link, and we share abilities since he’s a part of me, and I’m a part of him…

The idea numbs me as I remember what transpired before the mission. I stop rummaging through my dresser to look at him. He’s glitched and reappeared on our bed, ankles and arms crossed, watching the show I was about to put on.

“Johnny, about what I said…”

“Don’t mention it.”

“But—”

“Look, I know what you’re gonna say. It’s fine, you don’t have to spell it out for me.”

But I want to. It doesn’t feel enough to apologize to him through scattered thoughts. I want to formulate an actual sentence that holds all my guilt and pain between its syllables.

“V, quit it. You should blab your self-loathing poetry to Misty instead, because I ain’t listening to it.”

“Just…” I breath in, ashamed that I can’t bring myself to form said magical sentence, simply because I don’t know how.

I’ve been alone for too long that I’ve forgotten how to interact with people. Being independent for so many years has its advantages, but it has huge disadvantages that sometimes halt the easiest jobs. I’ve had many where I needed a partner to distract an enemy, or to disable the cameras, or to—

“Well, you got me now,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ll never be alone again, for what it’s worth.”

My breath catches as he peers up at me through his lashes. A lump has appeared in my throat and I can’t seem to swallow it for the life of me. 

He’s right, I won’t, whether I like it or not. He can disappear in the recesses of our minds in a way of giving me the cold shoulder, he could probably also swim through the net and end up in Alt's lap one way or another, but he’ll come back to aid me whenever needed. His life depends on mine, and I suppose destroying his engram now would cause irreversible damage to me that could be worse than death, so it’s also the other way around.

We’re linked. Interlinked. I have a friend in him even if the entire world dies with a whimper. The idea gives me strength, courage, hope.

“Johnny, I want you to know that I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know he already knows. I have to say it, or else it’d eat me alive.

“I know, I forgive you,” he says almost instantly. “But I want something from you.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to forgive me.” His mouth spreads into a sad line, as if he’s trying not to let his emotions show. But I feel them.

I think about his request for a moment on my own, ignoring how easy it would be to pluck his true intention from his thoughts that are just next door.

He means what he committed, killing millions to protect billions. I know he regrets it deeply. I sometimes get nightmares of it where I am him, wrestling through Arasaka with fear clutching my heart, sheer horror seeping into my veins as the nuke explodes prematurely. I know it wasn’t his aim. He knew it could happen, but thought the risk was worth it to stop a terrible war.

Sometimes the price is great, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be paid.

I slowly understand—he really did change. He’s not a hypocrite. I can’t judge him based on what he’d done in the past. He's never judged me based on what I used to do years ago, which is surprisingly a lot worse than what I do now. People change, but it’s tricky to convince others of that fact, since it’s rarer than a unicorn riding on a shooting star because of the immense difficulty of pulling off a comeback.

What makes it worse is that I’m not the only one who berates him for it, he does it to _himself_ , which through our link, influences me to want to do it even more.

I suddenly realize what he means. He’s not only asking me to forgive him, he’s begging himself to do it too, to stop the cycle.

Johnny stays silent as I wade through the mess that is our connected consciousnesses. Talking to him sometimes feels like talking to myself, and vice versa. He knows that if I forgive him, I’d force him to start forgiving himself.

I scramble to say, “I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault, as much as it might seem so.”

He swallows hard and ignores my words, but I know he heard them and that they sunk into his essence.

He changes the heavy subject by glancing again at my bare chest.

He forces on a mischievous smile. “You know, kind of a special torture that I can look but can’t touch.”

Despite the air leaving me at his comment, I say, “Consider yourself at a strip club.”

“Didn’t follow rules in strip clubs.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He hums, eyes still fixed on my chest.

“Because I’m in your head?” I quip, aware of how I angrily accused him of the same a couple of days ago, wanting him out. Things are different now though, or at least I hope so.

I wasn’t aware of how badly my guilt was devouring me. I hurt him, yet he discarded his _pride_ and reappeared to save me…

He could’ve left me on read forever and it wouldn’t have affected him in any way, yet it might’ve almost… destroyed me. The things we’ve been through together, what we’ve seen… If it all was for naught, I don’t know how I would deal with it.

The idea makes me want to get closer to him to be certain that he’s back. I step over to him despite myself.

Johnny’s breath hitches as I end up between his legs, looking down at him. I feel warmth spreading in my belly as his gaze flits up to search my eyes. I know he knows, that he felt it too, so I don’t try to hide it.

“V…”

“Yes, Johnny?”

His silver hand moves up to lightly rest on my hipbone. His touch is barely there and just as cold as before, but it’s better than nothing.

I tut, smiling. “It’s true. You can’t keep your hands to yourself even when you’re dead.”

He snorts at that, hand slowly sliding up to the dip of my waist. “You can’t put these in my face and expect me to do nothing about it.”

“It’s not the first time you see them.” Not by a long shot.

He sighs, and I get the same question that’s just occurred to him. Why is it that we chose to be this close right now?

“Because I missed you,” I answer us both. “And you saved my life.”

Without him, I’d be six feet under right now. And without him, I felt incomplete, as if a huge chunk of me was ripped out. The relief of having him back is so great that I’m still holding back tears.

The realization that I can’t go on without him makes me want to hold him as close as I can, so that he may never leave again.

And I do. Or at least try to. I put my arms over his shoulders, still holding their weight as I loop them around his neck. I wince as the movement tugs at my shoulder, but shake my head and ignore it.

He gets the idea and leans in, resting his forehead on my stomach with a sigh and encircling me with his arms. Cold floods my skin at the contact, and goosebumps begin to dot it.

“I thought I lost you.” I hold him as close as I can without phasing through him, drowning in the desperate sensation of him being so close yet so far.

“Never.”

And I know it’s true. Even if we wanted to, we can’t get away from each other. It’s simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

I run my fingers through his hair, and it feels like silky, lukewarm water. Being himself, he moves one hand downward, going past my hip and ending up at the curve of my bottom. I bite my lip as he forces his hand through the barrier of my pants and underwear, phasing through the fabric until his freezing grip is directly on my bare skin.

I lean back to look at him, barely breathing. He has a proud smile on his face as he notes my reaction.

“Interesting,” he says, moving his hand in circles.

The sensation is so strange that I squeeze my eyes shut. I let one hand slide down his neck, his collarbone, along the shape of my bullet necklace, until it stops where his heart should be. It’s still, as if his digital construct found no use for biological imperatives like a heartbeat.

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him visibly breathing, or coughing, or sneezing. I’ve seen him spit once after we dealt with that security corporation that was mind-controlling the poor Peralezes, but his saliva faded before it hit the ground, as if the biochip freaked out and realized he wasn’t supposed to be doing human things.

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind my train of thoughts. His other hand slowly creeps up my stomach, leaving a path of biting cold that makes me shiver. His long fingers wrap around my right breast, eyes becoming lidded as he lightly squeezes my nipple between his index and middle.

I hiss as the cold contact hardens it immediately. I marvel momentarily at how his ethereal touch can cause visible changes to my body. The human mind is truly something glorious, and technology enhances it further.

Johnny hums lowly, enjoying his effect on me. His hand slides down my thigh, then up again to dig his short fingernails in the flesh. I release a shaky sigh. It’s frustrating that he’s not getting any closer to where I want him the most.

The idea gives us both pause. We look at each other, unsure. Do we really want this? Especially right now when there’s a lot of work to be done that it’s making me restless and impatient?

Plus... I don't know how it would even work. Would I even feel it? Would it be too cold for me to enjoy it? I'd rather not think of specifics, they will only frustrate us both.

Johnny's face falls. “Maybe later, then?” He lets go of my body, and he grips the edge of the bed pointedly, as if forcing himself not to reach up and touch me again.

“Sure,” I say, hand moving around to cup his cheek. “But…”

Thankfully, I don’t need to say it. He waits for me patiently, eyes lidded and head tilted up. I move in slowly, keeping him still as I close my eyes.

Our lips connect, and it’s like kissing the surface of a freezing lake. But I welcome it, I savor it. His proximity lights a fire in me, and his touch is electric.

It’d never occurred to me that I’d be in his cold embrace, lips almost pressed to each other carefully. But deep inside, I know that it’s been a long time coming. 

He’s been at my side for months, but our connection means we lived our entire lives together. He knows everything there is to know about me, and I him. We bicker constantly but I know it’s because we’re both flawed beings in a flawed world, wrestling to survive and do the right thing every minute of every day. And despite our fights, we’re always there for each other. Always.

In more ways than one, we’re practically soulmates, and there’s no point in denying it.

When I pull back, Johnny has a dreamy look on his face. It almost looks comical on him, since he’s supposed to look menacing, raging, endlessly defying.

But he doesn’t need to look pissed all the time to keep up appearances anymore. I won’t judge him, and there’s no one else to judge him but himself, and it feels like he’s letting go.

“Fuck. Need a cigarette.”

I was the one that said that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1JiqlJAZcQ

I’m on my building’s roof, straddling the thick metal railing as I watch cars zooming below. The sky is slate gray, and it smells like rain.

I fled here so I could stall. Max asked me to seek Camille’s help again. This time, he wants to find any and all tailors in Night City that make handmade fake flowers. He could pay and queue to view the government’s database, but it would take a long time, and Chrysanthemum or whoever makes him the damn things probably had evaded registration anyway. We need to rely on unconventional methods, he explained, and I nodded even though he couldn’t see me, wanting to get on with it already.

Johnny appears beside me, halting my train of thoughts. Both of his legs are over the railings, heels barely resting on the tiny line of floor between the railings and the drop. I stare with a raised eyebrow and the tiniest hint of cold fear tugging at my insides.

“Aren’t you afraid of falling?”

“You worried about me?” he asks softly. “Listen to yourself, V. Even if I fall, nothing would happen.”

I shift uneasily, making sure my other foot is securely on the ground. “Sure, but it still would be a lot of adrenaline that I don’t think I can deal with right now.”

“Think if I fall through the ground I’d end up in hell?” he asks, ignoring my reasoning.

“Trust me, there are easier ways of reaching hell, especially for us.”

He chuckles at the idea, nodding in agreement. “Suppose this is hell enough, anyway.”

Despite knowing he’s not trying to insult me, his comment still bothers me a bit. “Really? You think being in my head is hell?”

He looks like he wants to make a joke about women, but doesn't. “Not that. You make it better, actually.”

I sigh, wrestling with a smile.

“Sure, I can still experience shit. You can say that I’m mostly alive. But am I? Am I really?”

I scratch my head as I think. No, not really. I’d pointed out before that he’s not really the original Johnny Silverhand, only a copy of his psyche, a clone, preserved in time, while the real one died and had been buried in an unmarked grave. But since said psyche has the capability to develop and change like a real, live one, both of us hadn’t given it further thought.

And frankly, I don’t care if he’s a clone or not. Even if real Johnny and copy Johnny are separate entities, I like _this_ Johnny, the Johnny that survived long enough to change, to think about his crimes, to want to atone. I’m half-sure that if he hadn’t gone through the process of Mikoshi and being inserted into my head, he wouldn’t have found any reason or drive to change.

“You are alive to me.”

He gives me a sad smile as if to tell me he appreciates it, but it soon fades.

“Can’t really talk to anyone else. Can’t touch. Can’t feel things except through you and our memories. I can travel through the net when you’re sleeping but it’s nothing like driving through Night City with the windows down at three AM. I’m not really alive. I’m almost a figment of your imagination.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah?” He gets that challenging gleam in his eye, the eternal mark of being a rockerboy that lives and breathes anarchy. “Can you prove that I’m actually here?”

Without thinking, I say, “Can you prove that _I’m_ here? That anything and anyone is actually here? Sure, I can touch things and things can touch me back, but I don’t think that’s enough proof of _any_ of it being real.”

He tries to retort, but he swallows back the words, skeptical.

“Reality is no longer touch and feel, not in our time, not in this city,” I continue, looking down at how his fingers are firmly curled around the railings as if he’s trying to release all his pent-up frustration on it. “Ask any netrunner, any drug addict, any BD connoisseur. Their experiences are not tangible, but they’re real, even if only in their head.”

Johnny’s lips become a thin line as he mulls over it. I give him time, knowing how hard it is for him. I really do understand where he’s coming from. It must be almost torturous for him, being forced to stay inside my head as if it’s an inescapable prison. It’s some _I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream_ type shit.

If I were him, I’d try my hardest to break out. Which is why I forgave him for wanting to do just that when we first met.

I lay my hand on his, shivering as his inherit cold spreads across my fingers and up my wrist. 

I caress his signet rings with the tip of my index. One was from strip poker where the winner took all, the other a gift from a fellow soldier who had placed it in Johnny’s palm before he bled out.

I also note his tattoos. A ringed king cobra coiling around his hand, and a series of numbers and letters above his wrist. I’ve seen the combination as a decal on his Porsche 911, and it could be just that, a random designation. But one part could be interpreted as C20, King’s Pawn Game, one of the most popular moves in chess, where two kings send their pawns to fight their wars, just like presidents and their toy soldiers.

There’s also a Chinese character that my implants translate as _Fire_. Fitting, since he did play with it…

I look at my own arm and find the tattoo he’d gotten on my skin when he was in control. _Johnny + V_ inside a heart. When I first laid eyes on it, I was sure it was ironic, and planned to get it removed as soon as possible. But as the days went by, I realized I liked it, just as much as I liked the man in question. Then I realized he liked me back. And so I kept it.

Johnny flips his hand and holds mine as close as he could. I stare at the connection, wishing I could feel his warmth and more of his touch, yet thankful that I could feel anything at all.

Sighing, I call Camille before I could forget. Max has concluded his crazy black hair dye plan, but I’m not entirely sure how long it’ll keep Chrysanthemum from attacking. Not long enough, probably. Time is ticking.

Johnny listens as Camille and I exchange mandatory small talk. I hear a lot of bass in the background, she must be in her club. Irritated at the loud song thrumming in my head, I quickly explain what I need her to do.

“You know it’ll cost you, right?” she asks eagerly. I can almost hear her hands rubbing together.

I keep my eyes on Johnny’s face to stop from rolling them. “How much do you want?”

“Well…” she says, letting out a long _hum_. “How about… fifty grand?”

“What?!” I say, abruptly standing and moving away from Johnny. “What the fuck?”

“Please, choombata. My work is very efficient and precise, you’ve seen an example.”

“We get paid _half_ of that for the damn job we’re trying to do!”

“That’s too bad.” She tuts as if I told her I lost my teddy bear. “You can, of course, ask another netrunner for help, but who knows how much _they’d_ ask for?”

Before I could retort, I force myself to take a breath to calm myself. Anger would only muddy things further.

“Eight grand, take it or leave it,” I say, offering her the bonus Max plans to give me.

“Think I’ll leave it, _ma chérie_.” She clears her throat. “Fifty means fifty.”

I groan, stomping my foot. “Twelve.”

“Fifty.”

“That’s not how people haggle!”

“And who said you’re in the flea market? Fifty! Or…”

I narrow my eyes and wait patiently. “Or?”

“Or, you could do something for me,” she says in a blatant, giddy tone.

“For fuck’s sake!”

I knew she was jacking up her price just so I could have no other choice but to run a job for her, like that asshole Gunner. People are taking advantage of me, of my skills, and I’m doing _nothing_ about it. I feel like a slave!

Johnny shakes his head no from his position on the railings, crossing his bare arms. I want to listen to him, I do, but fuck, Camille might be right. Other netrunners might ask for something even more drastic, like eternal servitude or the assassination of Militech’s CEO.

“It’s your choice, really,” she taunts. “Fifty thousand, or a simple job.”

“And what the _fuck_ kind of job would that be?”

“I want you to kill a man that’s been a thorn in my side for years.”

“What is his name?” I ask through my teeth.

“Saul Bright.”

* * *

I burst into Judy’s apartment, my anger and horror making me forget how manners work. She bounces up from the couch, dropping a device she was tuning.

She brandishes a screwdriver at the intruder, eyes wild. She then realizes it’s me and rolls her eyes. “Have you heard of knocking?!”

“Sorry,” I say quickly, “but I’m kind of upset and I didn't know where else to go.”

“Upset?” she asks gently, quickly forgetting her anger. She bends down to retrieve the fallen device. “What happened?”

I open my mouth to say, but I can’t bring myself to. Judy had met Panam once, the nomad had come for a visit and I took them both to El Coyote. They hit it off really well, but I think it was a one time thing, I doubt they’re still keeping touch.

Judy wouldn’t understand how killing Saul would absolutely destroy Panam. She wouldn’t understand that it would absolutely destroy _me_.

She takes in the state of me, confused. She puts down the items on the coffee table and moves to wrap an arm around my shoulder.

“Hey… come here.” She drags me to the couch then takes a seat next to me. “What’s wrong? What’s making you upset?”

“It’s… a job.”

“A job?”

I nod while staring at the device. It looks like a makeshift BD wreath, but I’m not sure. “A very shitty job that I don’t know if I can do.”

Her brows rise to her hairline. “ _You_ ? There’s a job _you_ don’t want to do?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave dismissively. “The great and powerful _Dybbuk_ can’t bring herself to kill someone who knows someone she knows, she’s lost her touch and her mind.”

Judy looks like she wants to back-pedal, lips pressed together. “I’m sorry. What’s the job?”

Can I tell her? I don’t think so. I can barely fathom it myself, can’t believe that I’m already trying to make peace with what I’m gonna do.

A half-lie, then, “It’s a friend of a friend.” I think it’s deeper than that, Saul is more-or-less a father figure to Panam, but I’m gonna leave that out. “We need a netrunner’s help, and they need me to assassinate someone I know.”

“Shit,” she hisses, wincing. “Sounds like a sticky situation.”

“You think?”

“So, you gonna do it?”

At that, I finally notice Johnny’s presence in the corner of her apartment, leaning against one of the gleaming islands with a disapproving look on his face. I want to verbally tell him off, but I can’t bring myself to, even if Judy knows of my situation and had heard his voice when we were connected.

“I have no choice,” I say, looking down.

“If I’d known that Camille bitch will ask this of you, I wouldn’t have told you about her. I mean, I knew she wasn’t exactly… friendly, but this?” She looks away guiltily.

I make sure to quickly stop her from continuing her self-loathing act with a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t. It’s not your fault. Actually, you helped me.”

When she turns, I see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “I did?”

“Yeah. It would’ve taken me a long while to find another netrunner, and I couldn’t afford that.”

She nods lightly, straightening her back while taking in a breath. She looks at me then, a line between her brows. “Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, if you’re already planning on doing it. I can’t talk you out of it, and I’m not sure you want me to.”

Actually, I _do_. But it’s not her responsibility. I don’t know why I came here in the first place, she has nothing to do with this.

I thought maybe… she’d tell me I’m an idiot, change my mind, give me an alternative. It’s becoming harder to bear working alone when everyone in Night City is yearning to put a bullet in my head. Even a quick word with a friend is proving to be vital.

I could just talk to Johnny and spare poor Judy the trouble of listening to my complicated, ridiculous problems, but he didn’t exactly approve of the whole _Kill Saul_ mission. Whenever he opened his mouth, it was to scold me or try to convince me to do something else.

Which means it’s my fault for not listening, not Judy’s, not Johnny’s. I’m so full of shit.

Johnny hums approvingly, but I ignore that.

We sit in silence for a few moments, watching the gloomy light from the empty aquarium swirling along the ceiling with our heads resting on the back of the couch. I turn to her, eyes already heavy with guilt.

“What’s been going on with you?” I ask her. I need to change the subject, to forget my sin, to hear of another’s misery for once.

Thankfully, a smile slowly spreads on Judy’s face. Not miserable, then, elated. I smile back, glad that one of us is enjoying their heartbeat.

She tries to force down the smile, but it stays on, pinching her cheeks. “I told Moira I loved her two days ago.”

“What?” I can’t help but feel giddy about it, but I’m also a tad confused. “You haven’t known her for long.”

She shrugs. “I know, but it’s real. I know it’s real.”

I search her face, her eyes, dusky and mellow and drowning in pure adoration at a mere thought. Maybe it _is_ real.

But what is real, true love anyway? I thought I was in love when I was barely a young adult, but looking back, it might’ve been something else entirely. Perhaps I loved the thought of him rather than _him_ , the thought I’d decided for him, for us.

No wonder it fell apart.

“How do you know you’re in love?” I ask lowly, turning back to the ceiling. “How do you know it’s real?”

Judy sighs, crossing her arms and resting her head on my shoulder. “I guess… being in love means wanting to do anything for them, putting them before you. I mean… I’d quit BD if she wants me to. I’d go anywhere she wants to. She wants to explore the world, or… what’s left of it.” She chuckles to herself. “And while I’m better in front of a terminal in a dark room, I’d do it if she wants me to.”

“You’d do anything for her?”

“Yeah, to see her happy. And I know she'd do the same.”

I swallow as tears blur the ceiling for a moment. I suddenly realize it’s true, that I’ve never actually been in love, not with anyone or anything. I think I loved my sister, but if I’d loved her for real, I wouldn’t hate her as much as I do now. 

Max… I don’t know what to think about him. He’s my father, but he’s also the one that murdered my youth, that ruined our family.

And my mother… I can’t even bring myself to think about her.

“Did she say it back?” I ask, voice brittle.

“She wanted to kill me for not telling her sooner, that it was on the tip of her tongue.”

I grin, second-hand bliss flooding me. “She better treat you right, choom, or we’re gonna have a talk, her and I.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “Don’t worry about it. She’s an angel.”

* * *

I walk out of Judy’s at midnight, and I find Johnny sitting on the low concrete fence circling the building with a sour look on his face. The gray sphinx from before is close beside him, grooming itself and purring contently.

I approach, ignoring Johnny’s glare. The cat pays me no heed, continuing to lick its fuzzy paw.

I cock my head as I watch it. Other than this cat, I haven’t seen an animal in Night City before. It’s extremely odd that the only one in the entirety of the city is stalking me.

Or… stalking Johnny.

If Takemura hadn’t pointed out the damn thing, I would think I was imagining it. I scan the creature with my Kiroshis, as if to prove its reality to myself.

_Species: Felis catus_

_Breed: Sphinx_

_Sex: F_

_Age: 7_

_Owner: None_

_Name: Nibbles_

My eyes snap to Johnny and the Kiroshis scan him instead for a single second, I quickly command them to stop. “You named it?”

“Didn’t think we were still talking.”

I shake my head. “Stop it. Answer me.”

“Why do you care?” he challenges, folding his arms. “You don’t care about anything I say.”

I sigh and clasp my hands together to stop from trying to punch him. I move and sit on the fence, the cat between us. I run a finger across its wrinkled skin, and the cat stretches under my touch, seeking more.

“Why are you so upset about this?” I ask, refusing to look at him.

“Because you told me you’d stop killing needlessly.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Think we got to a silent agreement when we made up.”

“No, we didn’t,” I say between my teeth, finding the exchange of thoughts inadequate for this. “Even if we did, this is not needless.”

“Killing a friend’s family member is not needless?”

“Not when there’s no other choice!”

“But you didn’t look for any other choice!” He stands, startling the cat which hops off and trots away, ears curled back. I narrow my eyes at that despite myself— she can see him. “All they need to do is _whisper_ the word kill and you’ll do it without asking a single question. Have you _ever_ achieved anything without spilling blood?”

My lip quivers as he hits me with that, feeling my stomach sinking. I glare at him, refusing to blink. “Have you?”

He chuckles mirthlessly, nodding as if he knew I’d ask it.

He eyes me seriously. “Know there’s good in you, V. I’ve seen it. You’re just too lost to let it show.”

“I’m not lost.”

“Aren’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” I say more to myself than him. “I’m not lost. When there’s a katana in my hand, it’s the only fucking time I don’t feel lost, where I feel in control.” I stand and face him, getting painfully close. “Killing’s all I know, Johnny. You can’t ask me to seek a second option when there isn’t any for me.”

“So you’re just gonna let Night City use and abuse you?”

He’d chosen to wear a muted leather jacket today. I put my fingers against the lapel, wishing I could pull him by it. “Do you want to save those girls, or not?”

He blinks. “Not fair, V.”

“I asked you a question.”

“There must be another way…” he whispers desperately, eyes pleading.

“Not when we’re us, I’m afraid.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and I feel his cold hand creeping up my back. I savor the sensation, letting my own hand slither down his chest.

“I’ll go where you go, V, like always,” he says, but his voice is weak and defeated.

Guilt fills me, but I temper it with the fact that there’s nothing I could do about it.

Not if I want to make a difference.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xv0M-5RUFQM  
> Warning: NSFW

I finish cleaning the Malorian and return the supplies to the filing cabinet in the corner of my small armory. I fetch a vial of neurotoxin from the bottom drawer and replace the nearly-empty one inside the hilt of my katana. Then I grab a smaller vial that has a completely different composition, a slow-release. The effect would take a couple of hours to manifest as gradual paralysis, cardiac arrest, then death. Undetectable in the bloodstream, and as painless as I could make it without revealing myself.

After taking my daily doze of medicine, I check my outfit in the bedroom mirror, a simple black tank and jeans, a trench coat on top. It means I’m only visiting, but it’s versatile enough to allow for a quick escape, if the need arises.

Sighing, I rummage through my small backpack again. Extra ammo, tofu bars, spare clothes in case I get bloody, and a combat knife. If I’m lucky, the mission would only take a night, and I would be back here in no time, going after Chrysanthemum again.

“Is it really worth it, V?” Johnny asks from his usual place on our bed, the heels of his combat boots digging into my covers.

“Come on, man. We talked about this.”

He growls like a disgruntled animal, turning his head to the window. “Sure we did. But it doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

I throw the backpack over my shoulder, giving him a sharp glare. “You think I don’t know that?! Panam’s my friend, I owe her a lot! But I don’t have a damn choice, Johnny! You can try to look for the tailors yourself through your new superpower. But if you can’t do that, I’m going, and you’re coming with.”

“You said it, she’s your friend, and friends don’t kill each other’s family members.”

“You just care that she has a nice ass,” I snap.

“V, stop and think about what you’re doing.”

I don’t want to, but I comply anyway. I think of Saul’s hard eyes, scowling at me once I walked into the dungeon he was being held in, he asked for a shot of adrenaline and dragged himself out with no assistance. I remember his kind voice as he whispered an apology to Panam, embracing her rigid, fuming form. I remember him smiling at me, telling me that I’ll always have a place with the Aldecaldos.

Fuck… what the hell _am_ I doing?

“Exactly.” Johnny points. “Do you really want to kill someone that welcomed you with open arms?”

My eyes glaze over as he says that. It happened before.

It was my third night in Night City. I was already robbed of all my possessions, including any money or food I had. I was too slow with hunger to steal, too exhausted and proud to beg. My hands were shaking and my stomach was burning with pain. I slid down the wall of a tool store and put my head between my knees, trying to wish the starvation away. It began to rain, and I huddled closer to myself like a ball.

The shopkeeper walked out and saw me there. He was a middle-aged man, lost his family to corpos who’d thought he double-crossed them. He invited me in, taking pity on me. He covered me with his jacket, fed me his simple lunch. He offered me a place to stay until the storm blew over, and I accepted. He made me an expensive dinner of steak and potatoes, the first warm meal I’d had for weeks.

When it was time for sleep, he told me I could stay in his house for as long as I wanted.

But I didn’t want to stay. I knew if I’d stayed, I would’ve never left. And I wanted to get out there and live, to seek my fortune.

So I started with _his_ fortune, emptying it from the rickety drawer of his desk. I snatched all the food I could carry from his fridge, and never returned.

I’d carried the shame of what I’d done for years, before I realized Night City is a dog-eat-dog world, where kindness is rewarded with misery, where darkness chokes everyone, turning them into phantoms roaming the night.

I was young and foolish, but if I hadn’t done it, I would be dead right now.

I don’t answer Johnny, hoping the memory is enough to get the point across. Sometimes, people need to be sacrificed for the greater good. He’d understand, that was his philosophy once. And even though he says it isn’t anymore, I don’t buy it. I can still encounter remnants of it in the depths of his mind, lodged in the spider-webbed corners he refuses to revisit.

“This is your chance to atone, to do somethin’ different,” he says after reviewing my thoughts. “Not everyone is given a chance, I obviously wasn’t.”

“I’m going, with or without you,” I say, ignoring his words. But it’s not like we have a choice in the matter, he goes where I go.

He twists his mouth, gathering the strength to be alright with what’s going to happen. “Fine, just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t lose yourself.”

Easier said than done, and it might be too late for that, but I nod anyway, not allowing myself to give it much thought.

“Alright then, let’s head the fuck out.” He glitches up from the bed and reappears standing beside me, aviators already on.

Just before I turn, I notice something in the corner of my vision.

On the undisturbed side of the bed where Johnny was lounging is a many-petaled orange flower.

I drop my backpack and step back into the corner, panic crawling up my form, prickling on the way. Johnny notices and turns to see, then curses under his breath, reaching for an imaginary gun.

“Oh… oh my god…” I hiss, grabbing my katana from my side and aiming it at nothing in particular. “Where—d-did you…” I swallow and inhale, forcing the words to come to me. “Is it just me, or…?”

“No, I see it too,” Johnny says darkly, glitching forward to peer at the flower. “It’s a damn silk chrysanthemum.”

The cold feeling in my stomach turns icy. I turn and tiptoe out of my bedroom, hands shaking as I hold the blade. The apartment looks just as I left it—slightly messy with leftovers and blood droplets that wept out of my injuries or slid down my katana, smelling of stale synth toast and cheap perfume, and quiet like the grave.

I nudge the bathroom door open with my foot, holding my breath, but there’s no one inside.

After going through the apartment again, I allow myself to sigh, lowering the blade. He’s not here.

But the feeling in the pit of my stomach lingers. He was here before. He knows where I live, knows what I’m doing, knows that I’m chasing him. He might've even watched me sleep.

Max…

Fuck, what if he found Max’s house too?

I quickly call his phone, pacing around my small kitchen until I’m dizzy. Johnny walks in, eyes wide with what appears to be thinly-veiled panic.

“Hello?” Max says, then continues to chew something.

I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes. I practically feel my knees turn into jelly with relief. “Max, you’re alright!”

“’Course, why wouldn’t I be?”

I drag one of the kitchen chairs to me and fall in it. I daub at my clammy forehead with my hand. 

“Because Chrysanthemum found me,” I say calmly, slipping back into the tough veneer I’d adopted to survive.

He stops chewing, pausing to comprehend. “What?”

“I found a flower on my bed. I didn’t put it there.”

“A-are you sure its a flower?”

“Dad, I have a pair of Kiroshis,” I say dryly. “Yes, I’m positive.”

I’m not sure, but I think I hear him curse under his breath.

“Get out of the house, now,” he commands. I hear him rise, his chair creaking in his wake. “I’ll come get you as soon as I can.”

“Relax, I’m heading out of town anyway.”

“To do that thing?”

“To do that fucking thing.” I grab my backpack and hurry out of the apartment. “Listen, you have to keep an eye out. I can’t…” _lose you, you’re the only thing I have left._

“Don’t worry about me, my house is very secure. I’ve installed a lot of security systems through my career, gotta be careful.” He downs something, probably a crapton of alcohol, and sighs. “Once you’re done with your thing, come home, my home. I can’t have you staying in a compromised place.”

“I…” I don’t know if I could bear living with him again, but this is an emergency. “Okay, fine.”

After saying goodbye to Max, I ask my neighbors about a stranger that's managed to gain access to my apartment, but none of them have seen him. The man’s a ghost.

“Fucker must be chromed-out to be this quiet and clean,” Johnny comments, lighting a cigarette. “Either that, or he’s just very good.”

I don’t know which one is scarier.

I look at the locking mechanism attached to my apartment’s door, but I find that it’s intact. He must’ve either gotten in when the door was open, or… he has the signature I use to unlock it.

Which is a giant problem. He could use that to pinpoint my location, to chase me around the city and even into the Badlands.

…I could use this to my advantage. Maybe he _will_ chase me out of the city, but he’ll be defenseless then, unable to hide in the nooks and crannies of the concrete jungle. I’d be able to stop him once and for all.

I let the notion carry me out of the building.

* * *

The highway that leads into the Badlands is pitch-black and monstrous, devoid of city lights, filled with abandoned landmarks and giant, broken solar panels. The wind coming in from my open window is cold, fast enough that it’s hard to hear anything else.

My eyelids are heavy, almost impossible to keep open after days of staying awake. I've had insomnia for a very long time, and it’s only gotten worse after starting this wild goose chase.

I wonder if I’ll ever have some peace of mind, if my past and present will ever stop chasing me.

Quite unlikely. The things I’ve done will always be a hurdle in the way, a dark cloud hanging above. When you’re in my line of work, a quiet moment is the one you have to be wary of. Enemies must always come like the wind and fall like rain, and the cycle continues.

The road stretches on, aligned with the starry sky. There are a few dry plants strewn in the sand, their will to live stronger than the morning’s harsh sun and the night’s bitter cold.

I grip the wheel tighter, glancing at the rear-view mirror every now and then. It’s unlikely that Chrysanthemum is currently tailing me into the Badlands, he probably did what he did to scare me, to tell me he’s watching, that he’s not oblivious to my actions. That’s alright, I want him to know me, to realize that he’s living on borrowed time.

To keep from falling asleep, I study the interior of the car, starting with the dust-spotted windshield. Johnny had allowed me to remove the obnoxious _Porsche_ decal he’d applied along the top part as a young adult, I suppose he grew out of it. But he hadn’t let me remove the ones on the side, the same designation as his tattoo.

I glance at the glove box. While cleaning the car out, I’d found 50-year-old condoms, used tissues, punk bracelets, and folded papers with phone numbers on them. Living with Silverhand’s corporeal form was probably like being in an episode of _Hoarders_ , I pity any poor girl that had to stay over at his place.

“I heard that.”

I eventually run out of things to examine or think about, and my eyelids start drooping once more.

“V, stay awake,” Johnny says, putting his cold hand over mine.

My eyes snap open, and I adjust myself in the seat. “I’m fine.”

“Just stop on the side of the road and get some shut-eye.”

“I said I’m fine, we only have a dozen miles left.”

“Won’t be fine if you don’t listen.”

I ignore him, clearing my throat and fixing my eyes on the road. But the highway soon becomes blurry, distant. It feels as if there are lead weights attached to my lids. 

I even begin to hallucinate in my half-awake state—cars and people and buildings, lakes and wreckages and caravans…

I narrow my eyes as I start to hallucinate a pair of glowing eyes. The eyes morph into bright headlights. I’m too tired to understand. Closer and closer still…

“Valerie!”

I lose the feeling in my arms. 

The headlights sail past, and I hear the roar of a huge truck, the deep screech of its horn, smell its smoky air. I close my eyes, recalling my life before my last breath. Was it good? Was _I_ good? Was it all for naught?

But death doesn’t come.

When I open my eyes, I find my fingers shaking around the wheel, practically crushing the leather with a deadly grip.

The car is now off the road, and I quickly understand why—Johnny had taken control and swerved in the last moment, saving us.

I look at him, and find that his brown eyes are dark with fear, mouth parted and quivering, fists tight in his lap.

The feeling returns to my arms, and I gasp, adrenaline finally disappearing from my system, making me breathless.

“Fuck…” I hiss, putting a hand on my mouth as shivers wrack through me. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve listened—”

“It’s alright, V.” He cups my cheek in his hand. “You’re alright.”

Loving the way his touch is easing me back into sanity, I lean in until my chin is on his shoulder, my palms on the window behind him. He reciprocates, wrapping his arms around me while whispering comforting words in my ear.

“Y-you… you saved us,” I force out weakly, still jittery. “You saved me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Shut up, it’s the second time you save me… or…” the third? The fourth? I lost count. He’s been my guardian angel ever since we were forced to unite, saving me from Night City’s dangers every time I was too weak to face them on my own.

“Don’t mention it.” He strokes my hair. “Let’s just find a motel, there should be one on the way.”

I sniff. “I thought you hated motels.”

“Sure, but I like living.”

I chuckle and move back, searching for the nearest place in my GPS. 

I turn to him as I start driving. “You have to talk to me so I can stay awake. Talk to me.”

Johnny crosses his arms tensely, eyes on the road. “What about?”

“Whatever comes to mind, come on.”

He sighs, and glances at my still-shaking hands. “What do you think actually happens after death?”

Okay, I didn’t expect that. “What?”

“Mikoshi might’ve only delayed the true afterlife. What if hell exists, and there’s a cushy room and a hot demon lady with a spiked whip waiting for me there?”

I scratch my cheek. I’ve never given it much thought, it helped me sleep better at night knowing that I’m not sending people to eternal damnation or undeserved bliss. “I don’t think it’s real. There’s no proof of it being real.”

“But you said that reality isn’t only what we perceive.”

True, I did say that, but I did it mostly to make him feel better about our predicament.

“So you think if you didn’t swerve the car in time, I would be in hell right now?”

“Maybe, but maybe heaven.”

I can’t help but laugh. Me, _heaven._ Heaven would turn to ash if I ever try to walk in, angels’ hair would combust, Gabriel’s horn would rust.

“Why do you think that?” Johnny asks, genuine confusion in his voice, which I find extremely ridiculous.

“Are you being ironic, John?” I spit out. “Heaven’s no place for a gal like me.”

“Not a place for greedy popes and hate-church goers either, but here we are. God would let anyone in as long as they’re good ass-kissers.”

I snort, there’s the Johnny I know, walking around with dollar store devil horns glued to his head.

“You don’t deserve the hate you give yourself,” he says gently, and it almost breaks me. I have to grit my teeth to keep from whimpering.

“Oh, but I do. You know what made me realize I’m a monster?” I ask, but I don’t wait for him to answer or stop me. “When I found that it’s easier to me to hurt someone than to make them happy.”

He searches my face quietly for a few moments, and his thoughts wilt in my own mind, becoming dark and full of sorrow.

“You make me happy.”

That wakes me up better than a thousand cups of coffee. I sigh, feeling tears prickle at my lids.

“You make me happy, too.”

* * *

I watch Johnny as he smokes a cigarette with half of his body leaning out of the open window of our small, dank room. I’ve slept for two hours, and woke up as the sky began turning a lighter navy.

I’m far too restless, far too troubled to stay asleep, plagued by nightmares and wild dreams. I feel the world closing in, bringing my enemies and my fears ever closer. I roll to my side and stare at the wall, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Get some sleep, V,” Johnny says, as if it’s that easy. “I’ll keep watch.”

I shake my head. It won’t be enough with Chrysanthemum out there, looking for me. “I can’t.”

“You have to.” I suddenly feel his presence behind me, cold yet welcome. “Don’t want to have another almost-accident.”

“We won’t.”

I dare to look back and I find him there, his body flush against mine. He lifts a hand to run his fingers through my hair, trying to lull me to sleep. I swallow hard, noting how his knees are against the back of my own.

“Want me to sing you a lullaby?” he half-jokes, touch creeping down to caress my shoulder.

“Not sure I want to headbang right now.”

“You wound me. I do know a couple of songs that won’t make you want to screw your own aunt while shoveling cocaine into all your orifices.”

“I doubt it.”

As if to prove a point, he begins singing softly. It’s an 80s love song, one I only know because of his memories. I could almost feel his breath against my ear, and I shiver.

I nudge his hand away playfully. “You’re the lord of cringe.”

He chuckles, sliding his other arm under and around me. “And you’re beautiful.”

My breath catches in my throat. I pause to look at him in the dim light of the motel room, feeling like we’re the only two people alive. Where did that come from? I try to retort, but nothing comes to mind.

So instead, I lift my head to kiss him. He groans in my mouth, leaning down so I could rest my head back on the pillow.

He moves over me, hands sliding down my waist, legs between my own. His raven hair falls around us, forming a curtain. My heart hammers in my throat, my knees quiver.

Johnny’s hand creeps ever closer to my belly, and I push off the bed slightly, seeking his touch.

Suddenly, I hear him chuckle, and I lose feeling in my arms. They fall at my sides, paralyzed.

“Why did—”

Johnny pins me with a half-lidded, smoky look. “You’ve been bad, refusing to listen to me, almost killed us.”

“What…?”

“Have to make sure you’ll listen next time.”

I try to move my arms again, but they stay dead. Fucker must’ve taken control of them.

“Johnny, that’s not funny…” I whisper weakly, feeling an alien thrill coursing through me.

His hand moves further down and phases through my jeans. I feel his cold fingers against my core, and I stifle a gasp as a shiver crawls up my spine. My legs tighten around his form.

“Looks like you love it, you love being punished,” he says approvingly, fingers lightly stroking as he watches me writhe under him. “Say you’ll listen to me next time.”

“Johnny…” I hiss, trying to move to feel more of his touch, but my hands close around the covers, pinning me in place.

“Yes, Valerie?” he murmurs, slowly curling one finger against my entrance.

I grit my teeth. “Please…”

“No, not until you say it.”

Warmth spreads in my belly, and the cold from his touch branches up, countering that. The sensation drives me half-insane, and I let out a moan.

“No,” Johnny says, “I don’t want to hear that, I want to hear you say it. Say you’ll listen to me.”

I glare at him, simultaneously loving and hating how he’s ordering me. I shake my head.

“No? Then I won’t do it.” His touch disappears, and he leans back to sit on his haunches above me.

I whimper, feeling hot and cold all over, already missing his touch.

“Say it.”

“No, you aren’t always right.”

“Neither are you.”

“I’m right more often than you,” I say with a chuckle.

“Not true.”

“Just fucking touch me.”

“Just fuckin’ say it.”

Goddammit, I can’t _believe_ this smug, charming bastard. Why did it have to be him on this damn chip?

“Could say it was fate,” he offers, smirking. “Now let me hear it.”

He puts one sly finger on my thigh, and traces it up and down.

I close my eyes. I… I have to…

“Yes?”

“Fuck, alright,” I exclaim, cheeks blushing. “I’ll fucking listen to you next time.”

He descends on me, lips crashing against my own, fingers finding my core quickly. I whimper as he inserts two fingers, not bothering with the barrier of my jeans. He pumps them, his other hand supporting his weight beside my head.

“Know how long I wanted to do this?” he asks breathlessly, staring down at me.

I shake my head, biting my lip.

“Ever since the diner. You were sitting there, yelling at me, and I thought to myself—fuck, those tits are like heaven, can’t believe I get to stare at them behind my glasses for devil knows how long.”

I let out a laugh, toes curling as his fingers continue sliding against my folds.

Johnny lets out a low moan, and I suddenly realize it’s not just because he’s watching me, but because he’s giving _himself_ pleasure as he gives it to me. Our nervous systems are connected, and he feels everything I feel. The idea is blistering hot, so much that I can’t help but gasp.

“ _Shhh,_ ” he says, swallowing hard, slowly losing composure. “Don’t make a sound.”

He commands my hand so that my index is against my lips. I open my mouth, taking it in. He watches with a gleam in his eye as hollow my cheeks around it, breathing roughly.

“Fuck, look at you. I wish I could feel that hot little mouth around me,” he mutters, hand still moving against me. “I wish I could show you what else I can do.”

His touch is light and cold but his movement is fast and sharp. Warmth creeps up my neck and cheeks. I suck on the digit harder. My folds pulse around his fingers, close and ready. 

“Yes, show me, show me,” he whispers hoarsely.

My body convulses at the sound of his voice, but pauses at the strange sensation, unable to initiate an ordinary orgasm because of the cold.

It starts slow in my belly, a velvety, lukewarm caress that soon makes its way down, then up again. Goosebumps begin to dot my skin as I cry out around my finger, feeling the wave of my orgasm intensify all at once. Johnny grunts, mouth falling open and brows knitting together in focus. We both close our eyes as the feeling continues, spreading across our bodies, pure heaven.

Johnny falls on top of me, fingers still inside. He gives me back my arms, and I wrap them around him as our orgasm pulses between us once more.

Out of nowhere, he starts laughing.

“What?” I say, chuckling alongside him.

“That was something else.” He rolls off to lie beside me on the small bed, grabbing a cigarette from mid-air. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him grinning, but he is now, and it’s because of me. Warmth spreads across my body at the thought. He looks so young when he smiles, eyes twinkling and empty of horrors for once.

“Yeah.” I smile. “Weird, but amazing.”

We spend a few minutes listening to the night, soaking in the bliss.

“Are you gonna sleep now?” he asks, smoke wafting out of his mouth.

I stretch and moan. It’s hard not to after what he did.

He chuckles proudly. “It’s alright, V. I’ll stay awake, nothing will hurt you.”

I snuggle as close to him as I could. “Call me Valerie,” I mumble.

“What?”

But I’m already asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4azZNdAIzNw

Panic yanks me awake, and I instantly notice something is wrong. I spring from the bed, half-asleep, and I hear Johnny.

“Watch out!” he cries.

I hear a gunshot, and I realize it’s from the Malorian in my hand. I’d put it on the nightstand before sleeping, worried about intruders. Johnny must’ve grabbed it.

I realize that I was right about wanting to stay awake in case something happened. My victim is at my feet, screaming, bloody hand clutching the hole in his chest. He’s not dressed like a ‘Tino, and he certainly looks too wimpy too be a serial killer. He must be a run-of-the-mill bounty hunter.

I have enough time to roll my eyes, so I do.

I grab my katana from beside the bed, leap over the dying man, and switch my Kiroshis to thermal mode. Three more figures are in the darkness, equipped with night-vision lenses and silenced pistols aimed at me, looking for the perfect moment.

Johnny aims my hand to one of them while I jump over the bed, shoving the blade into a neck as Johnny fires. We both turn to the sole bounty hunter left, a whimpering woman that drops her gun and puts her hands up in surrender.

I raise my katana above her glowing outline, snarling.

But Johnny stops me with a hand to my chest. “Valerie, don’t.”

“Why?” I say out-loud, and the woman falls to her knees, holding her head in her shaking hands, the reality of what she’s gotten into finally hitting her.

“She’s not worth it, let her go,” he argues over the sound of her wailing, lowering my hand that’s holding the Malorian.

“She’ll tell her friends and they’ll all come after me.”

“No!” she shouts, putting a hand between us. “P-please! You’ll never see me again, ever! I’m… sorry! They told me it’s gonna be an easy job, that you’ll—”

“Save it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Just get out of here before I change my mind.”

I’ve never seen anyone run that fast in my life.

Sighing, I gather my stuff and put on my shoes. Fucking hell, can’t have a quiet moment. No wonder I’m afraid to sleep.

“Sorry, shoulda woken you up when I heard footsteps, but I thought it was just another guest,” Johnny says, watching me pack.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m still in one piece.”

Johnny kicks one of the bodies with his ghost-like foot, and cringes when he notices fragments of too-white, enhanced bone on the glossy floor. “Can’t be said for these poor bastards.”

I look out the window. The sky is still orange and the sun is a red disc rising above the beige hills. It wouldn’t take long to reach the Aldecaldos camp, might even catch them at breakfast.

“Thank you,” Johnny says suddenly.

I raise a brow, surprised that he even knows those words. “What for?”

He smiles. “Listening to me.”

After quickly explaining the dead bodies to the owner, I get going.

* * *

The Aldecaldos have changed locations several times since I first met them, but they’ve managed to make their camp look more-or-less the same every time. Tents and trailers and makeshift lean-tos, tarps stretched over the sides of trucks with scavenged tables and fold-able chairs underneath to make sure no one ever has sore feet, shadowed areas for the many vehicles and bikes, racks of guns and knives, and smuggled boxes of food and ammo strewn about. 

It almost reminds me of home. Townspeople used to come up with all kinds of ways to make the empty stretch of scorched land just a little more inviting. Max used to fill up our fragile shack with any torn piece of furniture or broken luxury he could get his hands on. Much like the Aldecaldos, he made the empty, hostile desert feel like home.

And I’m about to ruin it for them.

“You even asked why Camille wants him dead?” Johnny asks, leaning forward in the passenger seat to search the camp.

“No, I don’t need to.” Knowing the reason would only complicate things and cloud my judgment. I know that from experience. 

“Listen, Valerie. I stand by my word. What you’re doing is plain wrong, but I can’t stop you, and couldn’t find another way except to pick up another job for eddies and just pay the cunt and get it over with.”

“We’re already here.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Fine by me, but try not to do it again. If there’s another way, take it. Don’t take the easy, bloody way out.”

I nod lightly, staring at myself in the rear-view mirror. I force on a fake smile, instantly hating how it looks on me.

I’m sorry, Panam. I’m sorry for betraying you, but lives are on the line, and only I can stop it.

I exit the vehicle, taking my backpack with me. I carefully walk down the footprint-marked slope leading to the camp, keeping my head high and my smile wide. Johnny doesn’t appear beside me, perhaps too disgusted by the entire thing.

I don’t blame him.

The nearest lookout notices me, and points a bulky rifle my way. I wave, smile becoming tight.

“Lower that gun before you hurt somebody, Alysia!” Mitch shouts at the Aldecaldo, making his way over to me. “If it isn’t V!”

He gives me a quick hug, leaning back to look at me with a smile.

“Long time no see, been giving Night City trouble?”

“You know it.”

“Here to see Panam? She’s in the command trailer. You know, Saul’s?”

My stomach pinches at the name, and I struggle to keep smiling. “Sure, lead the way.”

As we walk through the camp, I watch Aldecaldos mulling about, eating mystery scramble by the campfire or chatting inside the tents. A few of them are tuning their trucks or cleaning their weapons while listening to the only radio station they could catch out here. Others are patrolling the area, eyes on the murky horizon.

“Any particular reason you’re visiting?” Mitch asks, surprising me.

“I… no, it’s just a random visit.”

“Happened to be nearby?”

I look at him. His smile has gotten smaller, and he’s studying me closely, but there’s no way he’s already figured it out.

“Nah, just missed you guys, is all.”

“Good, because we missed you right back.”

I quietly let out a sigh, letting myself relax a bit.

Just as we approach Saul’s trailer, Panam stomps out, leaping down the steps and landing before me. “ _You_.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you!” Panam approaches and slaps my cheek lightly, scowling. “You never visit!”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Can it.” She drags me into a tight hug that practically knocks the breath out of me. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

She lets go, smiling wide. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know… the usual.”

“Right…”

“You?”

Panam sighs, dusting off her pants. I follow her up the stairs and into the trailer, parting the transparent curtains with a hand. “Been busy helping Saul. We’re finally moving, but we can’t decide which state to go to.”

“Options?”

“Oregon, Nevada, Arizona… anything that’s both easy and safe.”

“Think you’ll do just fine in Nevada,” I say, hating how a mere word is making a billion memories flash behind my eyes. “But Arizona sounds good, too.”

“That’s what I think, but Saul wants to go to Oregon, maybe even continue north to Washington. No one expects a nomad clan in the north, there are only scavs and the small towns they raid.”

The man in question is staring at a terminal, chin in his hand and frown on his face.

“Hey, grumpy head,” Panam says, punching his shoulder. “Earth is calling.”

“Put it on hold,” Saul Bright says, leaning forward to read an overly-long e-mail.

“V wants to say hi.” Panam nudges me forward.

I force on a grin. “Hi.”

Saul waves dismissively, nodding.

“Not in a chatty mood,” Panam notes, then laughs. “I guess that’s a blessing.”

As I follow her out the trailer, I try not to glance back at Saul. She takes me into her tent. She disappears for a while then returns with a bowl full of scramble and a mug of something.

She hands them to me. “Eat up, you almost look sick.”

“I… I don't—”

“Did I stutter? Eat!”

Sighing, I take a seat on her bed and dig in. It’s not bad, I can taste a bit of eggs and sausage in there. I try not to think about what it actually is. The drink is deep red, and tastes of berries, and although I know for a fact it’s just coloring and synthetic flavor, it’s so cold it makes my teeth hurt, refreshing after a long, sweaty morning.

Panam sits in the chair across and picks up a tablet, continuing whatever she was doing before I interrupted her.

“Kang Tao still on your ass?” I ask between bites.

“Nope, tank’s still in one piece too. Our mechanics made a couple of adjustments so it flies faster now. Though Saul wants us to abandon it.”

“What? Why?”

She shakes her head, snarling. “Says it makes us too visible or something, I don’t know. All I know is we can’t leave it behind. It’s far too useful. Never know when we’d need to blow up a train of Raffens or Scavs.”

“Both of you raise good points, but I’ll stay out of it since I like having my head on my shoulders.”

She chuckles despite herself, giving me that kohl-lined melted look of hers. The sensation of impending remorse grips me once again, making me look away.

Thankfully, she doesn’t notice.

“You know, I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” I say, feeling a sudden bittersweet sensation. I haven’t known her for long, but we’ve grown quite close.

Which makes what I’m going to do even worse.

“We’ll keep in touch. You’ll get bored of me calling, I promise,” she says, grinning.

I’m not sure I’d be able to handle lying to her face for heavens know how long. I mentally prepare myself for the coming months.

“You’re gonna sleep over tonight,” she states firmly, not a question.

It would be quite dangerous, but it might allow me more time to plan around the Aldecaldos schedule, to find an opening.

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Attagirl, now go on and mingle. I’m sure a lot of us miss you, but you can ignore the ones that didn’t, or tell them to fuck off, your choice.”

* * *

I spend the day talking to people and helping them do chores however I can, it’s the least I could do. After all, I’m about to kill their leader.

Fuck. I want to drop everything and go home so badly, but I can’t. I’ve already wasted enough time coming here, and any other option would’ve sapped even more precious time that could mean the life of a child.

As the sun sets, cooks bring out tonight’s dinner, pots of simple yet hearty stew that has everyone scrabbling for a second helping.

When it’s my turn, I scoop a bit into my bowl and settle around the campfire. Panam joins me a while later, handing me a chilled beer. I take it gratefully, opening it with my teeth.

“Good day, huh?” she asks before putting a spoonful of soaked synth meat in her mouth. It tastes like rust and smells like bike exhaust, but food is food.

I shrug.

“I gotta admit, the chow’s better in the city, but being with family is worth eating crap for.”

I nod, but her comment forces me to look away guiltily.

My eyes land on Saul, squeezed between Teddy and Bob on the bench. He’s wolfing down his meal as fast as he could without choking, eager to return to his duties.

After drinking the broth left, he lowers his bowl and meets my gaze.

I hold it, and he smiles softly, lips glistening in the sharp blaze of the campfire. I’ve never noticed how brilliant and expressive his eyes are, colored a greenish gray and framed with long eyelashes, wrinkles and sun damage, holding decades of experience and endless wisdom despite his relatively young age. How am I supposed to kill their light? How am I going to live with myself after this?

“How’s your… Mikoshi thing going?” Panam asks, breaking the spell.

I stare at my bowl. “Pretty good, all things considered.”

“It’s not bothering you anymore?”

I snort. “Not quite, but it’s harmless now.”

A pair of Aldecaldos walk in, handmade guitars in their hands. Their kin scoot to give them a place to sit. Everyone listens as they begin playing a soft melody together. The combination of a toasty fire, the warmth of Aldecaldos swaying beside me, and the starry sky above is all too cozy. My brows knit as I wonder if they’ll ever experience such an atmosphere again, or if my action would scatter them, wrecking and disbanding the entire family.

I remind myself yet again that it’s necessary, that Chrysanthemum has to be stopped.

As the song ends, the Aldecaldos raise their glasses and bottles in a toast. “To Scorpion, and all that we lost in our time.”

“Hear hear.”

“To family.”

I hesitantly raise my bottle with them, feeling sick to my stomach. Scorpion is still on their mind, a part of their family for eternity, even after death.

They’ll remember Saul till the end of their days.

Midnight comes too fast, bringing a bone-gnashing desert cold that forces everyone to flee to their tents and trailers.

“When you’re sleepy, head to the empty tent next to the armory,” Panam says, pointing at said tent. They’ve kept it empty for potential guests despite the fact that some Aldecaldos are huddling together in crowded trailers, barely finding the space to unfold their legs. It makes me queasy to realize how hospitable they are and how I’m taking advantage of it in so many ways.

I deserve all the bad shit that’s happening to me, and more.

I spend a few minutes in the tent with flaps closed, trying to muster the courage to go through with my mission. I check the vial of neurotoxin in my hand, smaller than my pinkie yet more potent than viper venom. I’d started using toxins back when I was working at Militech, it gave my performance a significant boost despite it being expensive to maintain, though I suppose they’re a bit cheaper than sniper bullets or smart gun cartridges in the long run.

I suppose that’s another thing I share with the killer—my love for chemical compounds that have the ability to wreck a human body completely.

Saul won’t feel any pain, though he won’t die a dignified death, certainly not the viking one he’s been looking forward to ever since he rose through the ranks. It’s probably the worst thing ever for a nomad to die in his own bed. People like them go out in a blaze of fire, like rockerboys, like Johnny…

I pocket the vial and walk out the tent.

The camp is practically a ghost town. I can see blobs of shadows moving behind the thin fabric of tents, people eating or drinking or embracing, hiding from the cold. I wrap my arms around my body, burying myself deeper in my trench coat, shoving my nose under the collar.

I walk up to the messy food trailer, where the cooks and bartenders concoct the daily menu with whatever others managed to scavenge or trade. I look around for any witnesses, and not finding any, I lean over the counter to grab a bottle of whiskey and two mismatched glass tumblers.

I pour three drops of toxin into one of them, memorizing which. I hold the glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other, and head to Saul’s trailer.

He’s still hard at work, sitting at a scratched metal desk filled with tablets, beeping devices, packs of caffeine pills, and empty SuperJet hypos. I wonder if he ever sleeps, or if he relies on drugs and pure willpower to stay awake indefinitely.

“Hey,” I say, moving into his view. “Thought you might like some company.”

“Thought wrong.” He waves to the mountain of work before him. “I’m busy.”

“You’ve been busy for a while now.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be. People depend on me to live.”

I huff, this is gonna be torture.

I place the glasses on a small table and pour. He looks up at that, and notices the drinks in my hands as I approach.

“Want some?” I wave them around as if to entice him.

“Gotta work.”

“What you gotta do is relax,” I say, voice feathery. I drag a chair over with my foot and sit beside him, putting a glass in front of him. “It’s almost one in the morning, you have to let loose before bed.”

“Who said I’m going to bed?”

The transparent curtains billow, allowing freezing air into the trailer. I stifle a shiver, but Saul is dressed in a vest leaving his arms bare, unfazed by the biting cold. So strong, so unyielding, like a great mountain, and I’m about to murder him like a black widow.

Saul exhales and pushes his glass to the corner, resuming his work. “I can’t stop now. I need to figure out how we’re supposed to avoid Raffen Shiv on the way to Oregon. Not to mention supplies, they ain’t gonna be enough, gotta raid a corpo station or two.”

I take a sip as if to show him it’s alright to drink, a blatant lie. “It’s just a drink. It’ll warm you up good.”

He looks at me with a raised brow, probably wondering what’s gotten into me. I give him my best half-lidded look, hoping it would crack his veneer.

“Tell me why you’re actually here, V. You haven’t been here for ages, why now?” he asks, and my stomach drops.

My heart starts beating in my ears, practically drowning out any other sound. I clear my throat and look away. “To be honest, I came for you.”

His stare remains blank. “Me?”

Biting my lip, I force myself to touch the hand resting on the desk, running my fingers over his calloused knuckles. “You. Been thinking about you since the day I met you.”

Interest glimmers in his eyes. “You have?”

I gulp my drink and slam the glass upside-down. “I craved your touch for so long, it’s actually kind of painful.”

At this point, I’m just spewing any blatant lie that comes to me. But it seems like he’s buying it, for he catches my hand in his own, and I marvel at its warmth.

He fixes those sea-green eyes on me. “I was hoping you’d say that. I wanted to ask if you’re single, to make a move, but I think Panam would kill me if I do.”

I release a fake laugh. “Sounds like her.”

“I think we can tell her to mind her own business…” He leans in and captures my lips with his own. My eyes stay wide-open until I realize they’re supposed to be closed. Kissing him feels like poison, he tastes of my own wretched wickedness, so much that I stifle a gag.

I could just let it proceed the way he thinks it will, could let the lie become reality and forget about Camille and Chrysanthemum and myself.

But I can’t, I came here to do a mission, and I never fail my mission.

I push him away from me and move to straddle him, legs on either side of his. I lean in close, letting him taste the alcohol on my breath. “ _Mmm_ , the way you kiss is driving me crazy.” I run my hand down his skeleton horses tattoo, making sure I’m still smiling. His biceps are big and firm, he could crush my skull with his bare hands if he wanted to.

But I won’t give him the chance.

Saul leans forward to kiss me again, entranced, but I put a finger on his lips. I grab his glass and hand it to him, nodding encouragingly.

Looking right at me, he knocks back his glass while his other hand slithers up my thigh. I bite my tongue to keep from bursting into tears, and I watch him swallow.

He puts his glass down, and begins ravishing my neck, sucking the skin there. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’ll be over soon, it’ll all be over soon.

* * *

I walk out of Saul’s tent after fixing my clothes. Thankfully, no one is around to witness the crime.

I hurry back to his trailer to take care of the evidence, rinsing the glasses quickly and wiping the bottle of any fingerprint marks. These days, any 2nd generation eye implant can detect such things, and I can’t be too careful.

I don’t sleep the entire night, tossing and turning and wondering if the toxin worked on his drug-fueled body. Johnny doesn’t appear to comfort me, and I suppose that’s fine. I have no idea what I’d say to him.

In the morning, I’m startled awake by a scream.

Panam, it’s Panam. I’d heard her screaming at Saul too many times, and now she’s screaming for him. I hear her sobs from my tent across the camp, and I roll in my bed, feeling my guilt slowly coming up to my nose, intending to drown me.

I push it down and repeat like a mantra—it’s for the greater good.

“V!” Panam cries in the distance, stomping to my tent. “V, it’s Saul!”

I quickly slip on a mask of shock, and sit up as she bursts in. “What?”

“S-Saul… is…” She can’t even bring herself to say it. Sheer panic is in her eyes, and her hands are in her dark hair, pulling. 

“He’s what?”

“Doctor and ripperdoc both say he had a heart attack in his sleep, which makes no fucking sense! He was alright yesterday! Saul can’t… die like that! It’s not meant to happen!”

I cover my mouth and force tears to come to me. Thankfully, they comply. “Oh my God, Panam…”

I rise and open my arms. She falls into them, legs unable to sustain her weight. “V… what… what am I gonna do?”

“I’m sorry, Panam,” I whisper in her ear, my tears becoming real. “I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panam: Omgggg Saul is dead!!!  
> V: *surprised Kirk face*


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFkgrmkcCVk

Johnny stays quiet the entire trip home.

Not that I feel like talking… I feel like throwing up, and I also feel like drinking until I throw up some more. I feel like locking myself in my bedroom for weeks with the curtains shut and the lights out, as if to simulate the death I gave Saul. Alone, afraid, and paralyzed.

Eventually, Night City’s skyline appears in the distance, shining and proud in the morning sun, dozens of colossal, crystal spires reaching up for the heavens. To the beholder it seems rich, extravagant, a city where dreams come true. But visitors learn not to judge a book by its cover in one night, after getting their things stolen and their friends killed.

Sometimes, hell isn’t fire and brimstone, but painted gold through the sweat of corporats who are slaves to the eddy.

As the road gives way to civilization, Johnny turns to me. “You know if Rogue was still around, this would’ve been a lot easier.”

I don’t reply.

“Hey, we gotta talk. You’re scarin’ me.”

I don’t answer out-loud or otherwise. I’m sure if I do, I’d throw up all over my dashboard.

“Know that you have remorse, which means you’re not a monster.”

I snort. So this is how he defines monsters. No wonder he blew up half of Night City in one fell swoop.

He ignores that, knowing I’m upset and practically incoherent. “I failed where you’re trying to succeed.”

I glance at him, frowning.

“Tried to change the world, to make it a better place, but I failed,” he says, slumping in his seat and scratching his stubble sheepishly. “You still have a chance, that’s the difference between us. Can still save the city.”

I’m not so sure about that anymore. If the demons of Night City keep asking me to do their dirty work, I’ll go insane before ever getting to the devil.

“Are you sure it’s worth saving?” I find myself asking bitterly, squinting as the sun’s glare reflects off of the skyscrapers. It’s like the city’s a living thing, mocking me for my shortcomings, for wanting to cure a place that wants to stay sick.

“Listen to yourself, V.” Johnny shakes his head in my peripheral vision. “Children are dying, you think they’re not worth saving?”

I exhale shakily. If I have to murder and to maim people I care about just to stop children from dying, then…

“Yes?” Johnny challenges. “Then what?”

I don’t let myself think about it anymore. Johnny scoffs, looking away.

He’s right. I have to do this, and I won’t back down.

Whatever it takes.

As I approach my apartment building, I find Max leaning against the wall by the entrance, waiting for me with a flask in his hand. I told him I’m coming home, and he told me that he’d wait for me there so he could help me move.

I don’t think I want to. I have too much on my mind, and I want to be left alone with the memories of yesterday to process them, but I couldn’t say no to him, not when it could give him some peace.

He nods in greeting as I park and exit the vehicle. “Hey, kid. You ready?”

I shrug. As ready as I could be.

I take him up to the apartment and show him the flower. I’d put it in my dresser before I left for the Badlands, knowing that it’s precious evidence.

As I pack, Max studies the fake chrysanthemum, holding it with a gloved hand. “Yes, it matches the flowers he uses for the victims.”

I roughly toss shirts and pants at random in spare cardboard boxes that smell like processed cheese. “No shit.”

“This’ll help us pinpoint his location.” He retrieves a plastic bag from his leather jacket and slips in the flower. “What did your netrunner friend say?”

“Camille’s not my friend. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna kill her after we’re done with this.”

He hardly seems surprised, and grunts in acknowledgment.

“Gave me a bunch of info, said that she complied it in ten minutes after our initial call. Bitch was trying to either show off or underline her competence, but I wasn’t impressed.” I move to the armory and fetch several boxes of ammo for the Malorian. “She looked for local artificial silk factories, since the killer would most likely prefer something close and easy to purchase under the table, instead of smuggling it from India. She found a factory in Watson that’s sold thousands of tons throughout the year, mostly to clothing and furniture factories. But she also found that it sold several bolts to artisans.”

“Artisans?”

“Yeah, people that make handcrafted clothes, furniture, and other knickknacks such as flowers. Apparently, there isn’t an established silk flower maker profession, most of it is done in bulk,” I explain as I move to the bathroom and grab my toothbrush. “I asked her to boil down the number to handicrafters who bought the colors Chrysanthemum uses in his crimes. Orange, gold, red, pink…”

“Smart.”

“She listed eight.”

Max’s tablet beeps in his inner pocket as I send him the info. I move back to the dresser and pull out a few articles I can’t part with for sentimental reasons. My bullet necklace, my old sneakers I’d scavenged as a teen, the Samurai jacket replica, and my beat-up stuffed bunny.

I try to hide the plushy from Max’s view, but he notices it anyway, pointing. “You still have this old thing?”

Figuring there’s no point in making up an excuse, I show it to him. He cracks a smile, glad that I didn’t throw it away. He gave it to me on my eighth birthday, bought it from a trader that passed by our town. The rose-pink fabric was torn and grimy even then, but I loved it all the same, sleeping with it for an embarrassing handful of years.

The kids back home used to tease me about it. When winter came and supplies practically ran dry, the townsfolk used to build one giant bonfire, keeping it alive for weeks with salvaged crates and furniture beyond repair. We used to huddle around it until the cold ebbed, which provided an environment rich with drama.

It's funny how a toy can bring back so many memories. I can almost smell the wood burning, can almost feel the warmth on my skin.

I turn it in my hand. It’s not just a toy... it’s a vessel for my memories, a reminder of my old life. It anchors me to reality, and keeps me from straying too far from the innocent child I once was.

Of course, very few people know about it. My reputation would fall apart if word gets out. It’s quite telling that I’m trusting Max with the info, even after all these years, and what he’d done…

“I don’t blame you for leaving, Dipper,” Max says in a brittle voice, as if he’s reading my mind.

“Don’t start, _please_.”

He looks like he wants to say more, _a lot_ more, but decides against it. “Alright, let’s just go.”

* * *

Max’s house lies in a predominantly-industrial section of Northside, where a few residential neighborhoods are wedged between hulking factories that spew thick tarry smoke, practically blocking the sun. His own neighborhood is a quaint, quiet one, filled with other middle-aged retirees too fed up with the fake sparkle of Heywood and the extreme poverty of Santo Domingo.

I park by his tagged, gray building. I’ve never laid eyes on it before, even though I might’ve passed it while roaming about.

“It’s small, but does its job,” he scrambles to defend his choice, as if I live in a corpo penthouse.

He helps me carry the boxes in. Johnny appears and follows, looking around.

Max shares the building with two other apartments. One is obscenely loud with 20s music, the other is as quiet as a vacuum. His apartment is at the end of the moist hallway. He lets the panel by the door scan his iris, and walks in.

Max’s taste in interior design is the same as his taste in clothing. Everything is dark and dreary—the curtains framing the French windows, the fuzzy carpet over the burnished tiles, the plush sofa and the recliner, even the light fixtures on the ceiling and along the cloud-gray paneled walls. Most of it looks quiet expensive though, I suppose he wanted to live large after huddling in ramshackle cabins for so long.

“Welcome home,” he says as he puts the box down. “Fridge is this way, bathroom is that way, and the spare bedroom is that way. That room is my study, while that one on the right is for surveillance and weapons, you can store your katana and pistol there if you want.” After taking off his jacket and putting it over the back of a chair, he turns on the electric fireplace with a remote control. “If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

I sigh and take a seat on the sofa, wondering what the fuck happened for me to end up in my father’s house after so many years. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking the same. Actually, he looks glad. He probably thinks he ‘got me back’ or some other father-daughter bullshit.

I know for a fact I’m gonna leave as soon as we’re done with the killer business.

Max moves to the kitchen and opens the fridge, pulling out a plastic-wrapped tray of pie. He removes the wrap and tosses the tray into the oven. Ten minutes later, he offers me a slice of pie with a dollop of cream on top. Apple, my favorite.

My heart squeezes, he still remembers.

I take it with a quick 'thank you'. I inhale the warm, cozy smell and sigh contently. Just as he always made it, chock-full of cinnamon as if to hide the fact that the apples are fake. It melts in my mouth almost at contact, and I close my eyes as the tart flavor tingles my tongue.

Max moves to a wooden cabinet holding a massive collection of spirits, glasses, and stainless steel champagne buckets. He pours himself a finger of cognac, and leans against the cabinet. I shake my head. If he didn’t have that bionic liver of his, he would’ve died of cirrhosis ages ago. I still remember his foul-smelling morning coffee and the extra money that once mysteriously disappeared from my mother’s nightstand, which he traded for three bottles of gin.

He takes a sip. “Right. We’ll divide the eight between us and we’ll investigate them. Anything you find out, let me know as soon as you can. And if one of them turns out to be our guy, wait for me. Don’t face him on your own.”

I shrug, fine by me. “What if none of them is Chrysanthemum?”

“Then we keep looking.”

I exhale and stare at the fireplace, massaging my fingers. I want out of this thing, so badly. “What have you been up to while I was…?”

“Looked into a couple more leads. I figured our guy could just be a ripperdoc, but none in the city matched what we know of our suspect.”

I look up at that. “You’ve been to Viktor’s?”

“That a ripperdoc?” Max asks, recalling with furrowed brows. “Yes, not our guy. He’s a good surgeon alright, and he has a good grip on chemicals and cybernetics, but he seems to know _rien_ about art.”

I breath a sigh of relief. Yep, sounds like Viktor alright. A brilliant doctor he is, but an artist? Let alone one that knows how to arrange flowers?

“Though, he did keep me busy for a good few days, he could be hiding something still. I’m gonna keep him under my radar.”

I sure hope Viktor’s not Chrysanthemum, otherwise I’m totally and inconceivably screwed. He could be spiking my medicine with slow-acting toxins, like I did to—

“I’ve also investigated some traditional painters, hand tailors, and two borgs.” He downs his drink and lets out a satisfied sigh. “No match.”

That captures my attention. I look at the bottles behind him like a woman dying of thirst, saliva gathering behind my lips. He follows my gaze and sighs.

“Sorry, I forgot you’re of drinking age now. Should’ve poured you something.”

That makes me feel guilty, but I force myself to ignore it. It’s not my fault I ran away, it’s his. It’s always been his.

I snatch the glass he offers me, filled halfway with the caramel liquid. I down it eagerly, wanting to feel the punishing burn and the peaceful numbness. Anything but what I’m feeling right now—self-hatred, guilt, terror…

“Slow down,” Max says, but I ignore him.

* * *

Eight drinks and three hours later, the world is a dark, horrifying blur. I stare at the cuts on my knuckles, giggling out of nowhere, then sobbing when I remember how I got them.

By killing hundreds, thousands. Many have begged at my feet, clasped their hands together and prayed and begged as if to a god. Except for the woman I spared to appease Johnny, I’ve done nothing but glare down at them apathetically, before putting my blade through their weakest points. I’ve seen fingers turning blue, eyes turning cloudy, skin turning gray. I’ve seen widows wailing and children screaming. I’ve seen friends holding each other as if they’re afraid of drowning.

And it’s all because of me, because of the things I did to them, the people I took from them.

I was placed in a role I didn’t want to play. Angry and unloved in a town, lost and afraid in a city. I was forced to become that which my father hated—a criminal. Then I became something even worse; a killer of killers. A bounty hunter, then a ronin, then whatever it is I am now, a ghost, a phantom, a monster.

I look at my palms. They’re clean, but I swear they’re bloody. I could hear the cries, could see the blood when I close my eyes.

In a flash, the pools of blood turn to one all too familiar. I’d memorized the shape of it, a dark blob like a lone cloud in autumn. Bullet holes were scattered across her body, two of her limbs were gone, and her blond hair was sticky and crimson. Her green eyes were just turning gray, losing all life and all color.

“Valerie,” someone says, but I’m too exhausted and drunk to figure out who.

They grab my shoulders, but I snap and punch them. My head spins and my stomach roils. I squeeze my eyes shut, dig my fingernails into my cheeks.

“Valerie, let me take you to your bedroom.”

“Get away from me!” I scream, punching the air in front of me.

“I’ll get you some covers.” A pause. “And a bucket.”

The covers are laid over my shoulders a few minutes later, and the bucket is placed between my feet. They try to touch my forehead, but I move back instantly, as if burned.

“You need to drink some water, I’m worried about you.”

“Go away.”

“Dipper, you have to let me help you.”

I open my eyes and find Max’s blurry form. My Kiroshis are precise and powerful, but not when my brain is in a stupor.

“I don’t want your fucking help.”

Max sighs and sits near me. I recoil, flinching away from him.

“Whatever it is you’re going through, I can help you work through it,” he offers, and I laugh.

“You? You’re the reason behind… _all_ of this! You ruined my life!”

Max doesn’t answer, but when I look at him, I manage to see that he appears to be in pain, lips pursed and eyes hard.

“It… I don’t know what to tell you, honestly.”

“It’s not like you ever knew what to say or do.”

“I can say that I’m sorry.”

“Too late.”

He crosses his arms, shrinking in shame and sadness. “I loved her, you know.”

I can’t help but laugh, hard, mocking the sheer bullshit that just came out of his mouth.

“And I loved you, you and your sister,” he says softly.

“No, no you didn’t.”

“I did, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”

I whimper, lip quivering. I want to scream at him until my voice is hoarse, and then beat him to a fine mist, but bile rises to my throat, and I lean forward.

Max holds my hair as I throw up into the bucket he laid. I try to push him away with my elbow, but my muscles are weak as I heave, emptying my system completely until my tongue is heavy and bitter.

Shaking, I push off the sofa, let the covers drop, and try to walk to the door. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to get away from him.

But I don’t make it.

* * *

I wake up with the sun's buttery rays shining through the window, bathing everything with a golden glow. I squint, putting a hand over my eyes.

I’m in a strange bed, a thick brown blanket on top of me and a sweat-damp pillow under my head. I look around. The room is small, simple. A brand-new mahogany dresser is in the corner, and the mattress beneath me feels springy, firm, as if it wasn’t used before.

I instantly remember where I am. I quickly rise from the bed, but a killer headache assaults me.

Groaning, I put my head in my hands as I try to remember the day before.

Flashes of drinks, a broken vase, crying, and…

Max.

I finally notice that he’s in a plush chair next to the bed, staring at me with concern in his shadowed eyes. I look away, ashamed, feeling like a helpless baby.

“I can get you some painkillers, water, breakfast, just say the word,” he says, shifting in his seat.

“No thank you.”

“You looked after your old man when he was drunk and hungover, Dipper. Now it’s his turn.”

“I don’t want to be looked after.”

“On the contrary, you look like you’re in desperate need of it,” he comments, rising. “I’ll make you some scrambled eggs and orange juice, it’ll make you feel better.”

He walks out of the spare room and disappears in the kitchen. Johnny flickers to life, sitting in the same chair.

“Care to tell me what the fuck last night was about?” he asks, crossing his legs. He looks just as tired as I feel. I’ve almost forgotten that what I do affects him, and I’m surprised it can have a visible effect.

Oh well, he did it once to me. Now we're even. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Again, need to hear it. Can’t pluck every thought from the cesspool you call a mind.”

“That’s too bad.”

He watches me wobble as I stand, sighing at the feeling of my feet against the cold tiles.

“You know, one day you’ll have to face what happened.”

“One day, you’ll finally shut up.”

He chuckles, and glitches to appear right before me. I freeze as he lays a kiss on my lips.

“Not likely.”

* * *

I walk out of the third workshop I visited today. Yet another mediocre upholsterer whose customers are snobs and traditionalists. No flowers in sight.

I sigh. This leaves me with one more suspect.

I pull up the info again behind my eyes. Apparently, Matthew Clemens is the fashion designer responsible for _Eridanus_ , an ultra-luxury brand that specializes in handmade prototype dresses that meld machine and fabric. His workers must be using the silk to make flowers for his designs. 

It’s a pretty good lead, I won’t be too surprised if he turns out to be our guy. But I’m not holding my breath.

The man is currently at a catwalk rehearsal, in a massive skyscraper downtown. I park the car and look up at it until my neck starts cramping. The building is covered with flickering ads from top to bottom, most of them are about the upcoming event— _Eridanus 2077 Summer Collection._

There are two hulking bodyguards standing by the large double-doors, dressed in pressed suits and equipped with 4th generation arms. They block the way in with those as I approach like two medieval sentries with spears.

“Sorry, ma’am, but the building’s off limits,” one of them mutters.

“Let me in, I don’t have time for this.”

They look at each other, half-confused, half-annoyed.

“I’m sorry, but the building is reserved for the _Eridanus_ fashion show.”

“I’m well aware,” I say dryly. “Need to talk to the man responsible.”

“Mr. Clemens is not seeing visitors right now.”

“I’m sure he can make an exception,” I say with a tight smile, putting a hand on the hilt of my katana.

The pair look at each other again, unsure what to do. One of them nods and mumbles something to the other.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” I say, pulling the blade slightly from its scabbard.

They move, pretending not to see me. I head on in.

It takes a few more threats to reach the hall which is still being prepared for the event. It’s gigantic, lit a soft purple. The pale catwalk in the middle is being polished by exhausted workers and low-charge robots.

I step over curtains and light fixtures that have yet to be installed to reach the circle of tall people in the corner. All of the girls are dressed in bizarre dresses that are pretty much unwearable outside the world of fashion. There’s one that is basically a lacy curtain cinched with what looks like mini railway tracks, another is a bunch of light-up polygons glued together, and one is made up of cybernetic arms that barely covers the model’s modesty.

“And Megan, I don’t like how your heels are making you walk,” the man in the middle of the circle says. “Try to walk better.”

He waves dismissively as the model starts to protest, saying that her feet are killing her.

“I don’t care. I can’t have you wearing any other pair, it goes against the vision I have for this…” He points at her fuzzy rainbow dress. “…masterpiece.”

Okay, he’s becoming more and more like Chrysanthemum every time he opens his mouth.

“Think that’s our guy?” Johnny asks, appearing beside me. “I’m ready to be done with this.”

“You and me both.” I sigh. “Maybe, but I have to talk to him first.”

“What if he runs?”

“Then he’s our guy alright.”

“Try not to kill him before makin’ sure he’s the killer. Better yet, don’t kill ‘em at all even if he is Chrys, we need a fate worse than death for that fucker.”

“Matthew Clemens,” I call, putting both hands over my weapons. “Need a word.”

He turns to look at the intruder. He’s in his forties, but looks in his twenties after countless injections and high-end treatments. His waterlines are black with kohl and his cheeks have a rosy hue to them. His blond beard is trimmed perfectly. He’s wearing a tacky sky-blue suit that doesn’t fit him.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” he asks, huddling closer to his models after noticing my weapons.

“I’m someone you don’t want to fuck with. I’m here to ask you a couple of questions, make sure you answer them truthfully.”

He glances at the katana and Malorian, and gulps. “Why did security let you in?”

“They let me in because they know what’s good for them, as you should.”

The models move away from him, stepping back and holding each other protectively. Matthew glares at them.

“What are your questions?” he asks, scowling. “Ask before I lose my patience.”

I purse my lips, scanning him. He doesn’t have any weapons on him, and his body seems too weak to do what Chrysanthemum does. Though for a filthy-rich twat, he only has a few cybernetics, Kiroshi eyes and a couple of internal replacements, which would match the killer’s hate for them.

But Chrysanthemum wouldn’t have bodyguards, he wouldn’t hide behind the skirts of six foot models, and he wouldn’t make such atrocious designs to sell for millions of eddies.

“I found out that your workshops have been using silk to make fake flowers, true?”

He cocks his head, parting his lips. “Fake flowers? That was three years ago! I ordered them for a concept I had in mind for a decade, but I’d never do it again. I have a reputation to uphold, and repeating designs would mean death.” He mimes beheading with a finger to his neck. “I use synth Eri silk for my designs still, but not for flowers, my workers didn’t make them from scratch.”

He, of course, could be lying through his teeth, so I ask again to throw him off balance, “You ordered them? You didn’t make them yourself?”

He scoffs, putting a hand on his chest. “Me? You think I take part in sewing?” He looks like he wants to spit at my feet.

“I didn’t mean that, I meant your workshops.” I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “Did your workers make the flowers themselves, or did you get them from a third party?”

“I ordered them from an artist that makes brilliant creations, his work united with mine perfectly!”

I step forward, murder in my eyes. “Who is this artist?”

“He wanted to be anonymous except to the Haute Couture world, because it maintains exclusivity.”

I grow tired of this.

I grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall, several inches off the ground. He screams, calling for security. But the suited men in the back do nothing, too frightened to intervene.

“ _Fottuto codardo!_ Do something!”

“Listen to me and listen well,” I growl right in his face. “I’ve been through hell recently and I dragged a lot of people down with me. Kids are dying out there and I need a fucking name to stop it. So you either give me his name, or I’ll pretend that you’re him and drag you to hell too. All the frilly dresses in the world won’t save you from me.”

“Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you!”

His eyes suddenly glow blue, and I slam him against the wall again. “You better not be calling your corpo ass-kissers or your Militech squad, it’s not my first tango with either of them.”

“I’m not! I’m uploading the fucking name and sending it to you! I can’t reveal it in front of everyone, he would sue me!”

The file reaches me at last, and I eagerly bring it up.

_Ajax, William._

My eyes widen as relief slams into me. It’s not Viktor, it’s not anyone I know.

Except if it’s an alias…

What am I thinking? Of course it’s an alias. A murderer wouldn’t use his real name for business, or for anything, really. Nowadays, it’s very easy for someone to reinvent themselves and pretend to be someone they’re not, especially in Night City, where some people come to run from something.

Regardless, I can use the alias to find this man. He might not even be Chrysanthemum, but even then I could cross out another name and be ever closer to the finish line.

“Where does he live?” I ask, snarling.

“Arroyo, last I checked! I can give you the coordinates!” He scratches at my cybernetic hands to no avail, face turning blue and eyes bloodshot. “He never told me! I never saw him myself! I made my men investigate him to determine the quality of his work!”

Which means he’d done the heavy lifting for me, I’m almost grateful.

I exhale and let the designer go. If he’s lying, he’d be very easy to find and end. His name is everywhere.

“My lawyers will feast on your blood!” he screams, fixing his checkered tie.

“I’m sure it’ll be the other way around,” I say, and start walking out of the hall, Johnny close behind me. “Oh, and your designs look like the scribbles of a ten-year-old high on Blue Glass.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yPol4RuMBw

After a few hours of research, Johnny and I determined that there are twenty-nine William Ajax’s in the city, but only one in Arroyo. I drive to the destination—the megabuilding situated there. I call Max to let him know, but he doesn’t pick up. I’m sure it’s because he can’t hear his external com, or misplaced it somewhere. 

I won’t try to call again, since he’d probably jump at the chance to accompany me. It’s probably for the best that I go through this alone. If I do end up finding Chrysanthemum in that megabuilding, I’m pretty sure I’d fare better against him with my father out of the way. He’s a decent detective, but he was never a good fighter, only passable. Many years ago, Max pissed off a neighbor and got his lights and a tooth knocked out in ten seconds. The only reason his captain had kept him in the force was his brain, certainly not his brawn.

Which can’t be said about me. If I had brains, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now, driving toward my potential death to fulfill some kind of holy quest all three of us imposed on ourselves.

If I do end up meeting my death today, what would I regret the most in my final moments? Killing so many people? Slipping into darkness? Leaving my old life behind? Joining Militech? Plugging in Johnny’s chip?

I have a lot of regrets, but Johnny ain’t one of them. Although I almost died because of his engram, I made it out alive and I became stronger, earning a friend for life in the process.

I look at Johnny now. He’s in the passenger’s seat, arms crossed, a cigarette between his lips, and a semi-permanent scowl between his brows, just like always. No, I don’t regret it.

“Appreciate it,” he says without meeting my gaze.

“What do you regret, Johnny?” I find myself asking. I think I already know, but I need to actually hear his thoughts on the matter. It might make me feel better.

“Too much.”

“Like?”

He discards the cigarette. “Fuck, you really wanna do this right now?”

I nod. I might not get another chance.

He sighs and his aviators suddenly vanish, revealing tired eyes that would fit better on a depressed 90-year-old, which I suppose he technically is, Jesus… “Rogue, Alt, Kerry, so many people I let down that I can never undo. Was given another chance and you helped me fix the shit I couldn’t before, but it’s not the same. It’s like trying to fix a broken window with duct tape. Prefer none of it happening in the first place rather than having to fix it and cut myself in the process.”

“You don’t regret Arasaka?”

He twists his mouth, thinking. I feel a thousand memories coursing through my brain, and I blink. “Yes and no. Told you that I did it to make an impact on society, to wake the people up from their slumber. And I suppose I did succeed to a degree—took ‘Saka down a couple notches, and people still remember me to this day. But I killed so many people I didn’t want to kill, ruined a lot of lives I’d never be able to fix.”

I’m not sure how one could both regret something and not. My regrets are clear-cut, my desire for a time machine to fix them consistent.

“You wouldn’t turn back the time and undo the whole ‘Saka thing?” I ask.

“Tell you what, I’d turn back the time to treat the people around me better. It’s fun being an asshole, not so fun finding yourself alone in the end.”

That almost physically hurts to hear. What if I end up pissing off everyone around me? What if I end up alone as well?

“Then you’re forgettin’ everything I told you before, like an idiot,” he scolds. “You’ll always have me.”

Tears sting at my eyes. “I don’t really deserve anyone sticking with me till the bitter end. I’m not a good person.”

“Very few people are.” He tenderly touches my chin with a finger. “I’m stayin’ and that’s final. No place I’d rather be.”

“Even with everything I’ve done? All the horrible shit swimming in my head?”

“Think I have a lot more fucked up shit going on in mine.”

I snort, it’s really true.

“So if we really are gonna get our head severed in the next hour, I want you to know that you’re one of the best people I know,” he says. “And I’m glad it was your head I found myself in. Think it would’ve been ugly if I was in your choom’s instead, that ‘Tino guy.”

“The best person you know… Not a high bar to clear…”

“But you still cleared it.”

I can see the megabuilding now, only a block away, towering over the rest of Arroyo like a massive, unnatural growth. I slow the car down as much as I can without getting chewed out by the traffic. I’m still afraid, but there’s a newfound serenity in my being, a promise that I’ll never die alone.

* * *

Megabuildings are all the same. They smell the same, look the same, feel the same.

They are the workhouses of the modern era. Places where people willingly imprison themselves, rarely seeing the outside world. There have everything they’d ever need here, everything they’d ever want. Floors and floors dedicated to ethnic food and snacks from around the world, electronics and gadget retailers, medical services, and various activity areas dedicated to countless hobbies down to the most niche. Compact little cities, so isolated that their inhabitants could develop their own shared culture and language if left untouched for long enough.

I take the elevator to the 58th floor, where William Ajax’s apartment lies. The metal gates open and I walk in just before they close back up. I march to the door of the 1023rd apartment, and steady myself.

As I try to breathe, the inhabitants of the floor begin to notice me, glancing at my weapons warily. No one confronts me, though, continuing to smoke and eat while chatting to their friends and neighbors.

I sigh and ring the doorbell.

Moments later, the door slides open, revealing a rather short, tan man with a bowl cut and a goatee. He looks either bored or tipsy.

“Can I help you?” he asks, giving me a once-over.

“Are you William Ajax?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Of course you don’t.

In a blink, I shove him into the apartment and shut the door behind us. He stumbles and falls, grunting.

“What the hell?!” he cries. “Who are you?! Get out of my house!”

“I don’t think so.” Johnny begins to look around as I unsheathe my katana and point it at the man. “You see this? You expect me to tell you its name, but it doesn’t have one, because you only see it once. If you don’t answer my questions right now, I’ll give you a free anatomy lesson.”

He whimpers, raising both hands in surrender. “Please! Don’t—”

“Save your breath, I don’t have time to hear that.”

The apartment is barebones and nearly-empty, smelling of chlorine and moisture. The walls are cracked, the floors stripped of tiles to reveal the rough concrete beneath. A good portion of the small living room had been bulldozed and sectioned off to form a balcony. Hung clothes billow from the clotheslines across it. The kitchen is a small area in the corner, a mini fridge that looks salvaged and a cast iron stove. Johnny leans down to peer at a few wrinkly t-shirts on the ground, reading the print on the back.

“Please, you can take whatever you want, just leave me alone!” the man exclaims, shuffling back to the wall.

“I’m not interested in money, I need answers.” I approach, keeping the katana pointed at him. “I found out that a man called William Ajax lives in this very apartment. You say that you’re not him, do you have any proof?”

Before he could answer, I scan him with my Kiroshis. _Emilio Arboleda, 32._ But it could be bullshit. Nowadays, it’s easy to fake a persona for one reason or another, all it takes is handing a couple eddies under the table to a random netrunner.

“I-I’m… I can show you my physical ID! The plastic one!”

“Yeah? And how do I know it’s not a fake?”

Johnny stands up and the info he gathered materializes in my brain. One t-shirt has the words _Mads Birch & Sons Law Firm_ printed in a neat arc. Johnny gives me a look.

“It’s not!” the man yells. “It’s in my bedroom, in the pocket of my work pants!”

I nod to Johnny and he disappears behind the closed door of the room at the end of the gloomy hallway. 

I turn back to the man and put my blade a hair away from his forehead. “What do you do for work, Emilio?”

He’s sobbing in earnest now, sniffling and blinking to keep his eyes clear of tears. “I’m a legal secretary! I work nine to five six days a week!”

“How long have you been renting this apartment for?”

“Two years! I moved out of my mother’s house after Christmas!”

“Do you have any experience with flowers?”

“What?!”

This is pointless. Even if he was Chrysanthemum, he wouldn’t just tell me. I should’ve brought along some sort of super-tech gadget that could extract the info directly from his brain, but sadly, Max’s tiny PI business doesn’t have the budget.

Though, all clues around the apartment point to him not being the killer. Chrysanthemum’s apartment would be filled with proof of his hobby, though he could be sewing his stupid flowers and filling his syringes off-site...

Johnny phases through the door and shrugs. “Didn’t find anything incriminating, guy’s legit.”

“How do you know that?”

“Looked through his stuff and didn’t find anything that links him to Chrys. Our guy must’ve moved out of the megabuilding years ago.”

Two years ago, perhaps, up to three. Either way, he appears to have vanished from the radar.

I sigh, it’s not like I can just arrest this guy and lock him up in Max’s attic for questioning. This is as good as it gets with the resources and training available.

Plus, if he was the killer, I would be a gruesome work of art right now.

“Okay, Emilio, I believe you. But you have to tell me who was living here before you.”

He wipes his running snot with his flannel’s sleeve. “I don’t know, I swear! I just looked for somewhere cheap I could rent and found it here!”

“Then who knows?”

“I… I don’t k-know! Please! I want to live, p- _please_ …” His voice shakes and tapers off at the last word. He breaks down, falling at my feet, shoulders shaking with the strength of his cries.

“Let’s just go, Val,” Johnny says, touching my arm.

“Fine.” I lower the katana and slide it back into its sheathe. “But if he turns out to be the killer, I’m gonna unplug you and throw you into the ocean.”

With a sigh, I close Emilio’s door behind me and walk up to the railings overlooking the atrium. I feel for the pack of cigarettes I always keep on me in case I get the urge I inherited from Johnny. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s hard to ignore.

I light one and pull, watching the smoke climb up to the sky before dissipating. What now? I could try calling Max again and let him know what I found out. I bet he’d find the killer’s current address. He’d definitely do a better job than Johnny and I did.

“Givin’ up so easily?” Johnny says, leaning against the railings beside me. He has a smile on his face from the nicotine I’m feeding him. It’s like tossing a wagyu steak to a lion.

“Please… I wanted to give up for a while now.”

“Don’t wanna hear that, told you we’re not quitting until we find the bastard.”

I’m tired of it. Tired of having to turn the city upside down to look for one slippery asshole. “Well, maybe some people are not meant to be found.”

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." He shakes his head and scans the floor through narrowed eyes. “Let’s just ask the neighbors, bet one of ‘em knows a William Ajax that lived here.”

I shrug, nothing to lose.

* * *

Twenty minutes and a few punches to the throat later, I walk out of the fourteenth apartment with slumped shoulders. No one knows about our guy. He must’ve been super-secretive, which makes a lot of sense.

I make my way to the last apartment I haven’t visited yet. Looks about the same, with a ridged, pistachio-colored metal door and a scratched locking panel to the side. I ring and wait.

But nothing happens.

I knock. Nothing.

Maybe the owner is out? Unlikely. Most people who live in a megabuilding stay in it for months at a time. Surely I’m not that unlucky?

I scan the apartment, and find the thermal imprint of a woman. Raya Moore, 92. She seems to be sitting, but she's as still as a rock.

Fuck, what if she’s about to flatline and no one noticed?

“Johnny, can you open this door?”

“Wanna see if she needs medical attention? You do know it’ll take the entire week for Trauma to show up, right?”

“Just fucking do it.”

He rolls his eyes and disappears. A few minutes later, the door slides open with a _whoosh_. I look around, no one seems to be interested in what I’m doing. Though I’ve already managed to piss off the entire floor, I need to be quick about this.

I walk in.

The apartment smells of old socks, sweat, and rot. I have to cover my nose until I acclimate. The AC is blowing air too cold for the season, and the windows are open, letting in a train of ants all the way to the nearly-empty kitchen. I move past dusty tables, chairs, a cracked TV, and I finally find her.

She’s in the dim, messy bedroom, sitting in a wheelchair with her head pointed to the curtained window. She seems to be breathing, though her vitals are concerning. She’s very thin, and her skin is of a ghastly color. I realize with a pang that the smell is coming from her.

Feeling sheepish, I get the urge to introduce myself. “Um, hi.”

She doesn’t even look.

Hesitant, I inch closer so that I’m before her and raise my voice a bit, “Hello, ma’am.”

She looks up. Her face is wrinkled beyond measure, as if desiccated like a desert plant. I’d almost forgotten what old age looks like—everyone in Night City is obsessed with botox and fantasy treatments. Most of them can’t move their foreheads past age 40.

She's toothless, but her cataract-swallowed blue eyes are soulful and large. She narrows them as she takes me in. “Who are you?”

“I—um… I’m not really anyone. I saw you in there and I just thought…” Fuck, this is so stupid, I should’ve just went home and gotten Max’s help.

But a tear glistens in the eye of the old woman. Her small, shrunken mouth spreads into a smile. “You’re the first to visit me since…” She looks away, eyes becoming glossy. “What day is it?”

“It’s… Tuesday.”

“Did Nova come back from the studio?”

“…What?”

“Nova, my daughter, did you see her?”

I turn to look at Johnny, who has reappeared, as if to ask him for backup. I have no idea what to do, but he shrugs, neither does he. “No, I don’t think I did.”

“She said she was going to work and coming back in the evening, but I’m still waiting.”

I swallow hard and prepare myself for her answer, “When did she leave?”

Her eyes glaze over again, recalling. The long, long nail of her index finger taps the metal of her armrest. “Sunday morning.”

“Sunday… what date?”

“…Sunday.”

“Val, don’t think she means last Sunday.”

Gulping, I realize that’s probably true. I scan her again with my Kiroshis. Her body is frail and weak, but several of her internal organs are actually implants, one of those military grade ones the corpos force onto their soldiers to cut down on food consumption by slowing down metabolism. A full set would let someone survive a month on the field without eating a single cockroach.

My knees grow weak as I realize what’s happening. Whoever this Nova girl is, she’s leaving her mother alone weeks at a time, only visiting to change her practically overflowing urine bag and to feed her stale leftovers. The smell is probably coming from pressure ulcers along the old woman’s legs and back. I have to force down the urge to vomit.

Johnny tries to steady me with a hand, but it goes right through, and I keep swaying. Who could do something so horrible?

This city never fails to surprise me. There’s always a new kind of monster lurking in the most unexpected of places.

Gritting my teeth, I look back at the woman. “How can I find your daughter, Nova?”

“She’ll come back soon, I just have to wait for her,” she says softly.

“Where does she live?”

The woman pauses for a moment, her sluggish, old brain slowly finding the answer. “She lives near a big building with a pink and blue light-up sign, and another building that has a girl wearing no clothes.”

Fuck, that could be anywhere. Night City is filled with debauchery and electricity-sapping lights.

But then I remember.

It was a rainy day in November. After giving up my body for corpo use through a Faustian bargain, I was on my way to get my first implants; my eyes. The misty windows of the Militech vehicle made the city look like a bright dream, neon signs bleeding into each other, forming a blurry rainbow. Kiroshi industries uses cyan and magenta to represent itself, usually in a blinking, target-like circle. And the naked woman, I saw her too, milky skin and red lips, a seemingly-endless advertising campaign for Dynalar cybernetic limbs.

“Johnny, find us a Nova that lives in Charter Hill, now.”

“Don’t think it’s that easy. Old woman might be saying the first thing that comes to mind.”

I turn to him with a piercing glare. “Do it, _now_.”

He sighs and slips into the network. While not as efficient or skilled as a netrunner, he could probably find the bitch in the government database using her address and mother’s name. It’s not like they bother to hide such info, it’s for all eyes to see these days.

As I sense Johnny working in the background, I fall on the corner of the small, disused bed, and put my head in my hands.

* * *

I wait for Nova to grace us with her presence with my katana in my lap. I’ve dragged a chair over and sat down by the door. My foot is bouncing on its own, trying to relief the building tension in my taut muscles. I’m half-sure that I would just murder the woman once she shows up.

Who could do something like that to their own mother? I loved my mother fiercely, more than anything in the world. And despite our differences and the chasm of time between us, I still respect Max like a daughter should. I’d never leave him to rot in some shitty megabuilding.

“What’re you gonna do?” Johnny asks as he looks out the window at the city.

“I’m gonna teach her a damn lesson, that’s what.”

“Gonna hurt her?”

I shake my head no. “Won’t go that far, but I’ll surely give her a mental scar to remember me by. I won’t let her get away with this.”

“Never seen you so furious, not even when you were chasing the priest that was diddling choir boys.”

“I don’t like it when people are cruel for no fucking reason, especially to their own family.”

He crosses his arms and his eyes harden, an imminent challenge. “Don’t think that makes you a bit of a hypocrite?”

“Johnny,” I snap. “The people I hurt are horrible, terrible people… Mostly. But I’d never hurt my own mother!”

“Then why do you consider yourself a monster?” he asks with a satisfied smile, finally getting to the point he wants to make.

I’m speechless for a few moments, then upset that he’d play me like that. “Because I am.”

“A monster would laugh at the old woman’s misery, you want to help her.”

“What if I’m just expecting a prize at the end, like info about Chrysanthemum?”

“Then that’s just the icing on the cake, it doesn’t cancel out the good deed.”

“That’s bullshit.” I chuckle. “I know that I wouldn’t do shit if there’s nothing in it for me.”

“Remember when that dirt-poor lady asked you to rescue her son from the Maelstrom, and you did, and when she tried to give you the few eddies she had left, you told her to keep them?”

“Doesn’t count.”

He moves away from the window and walks toward me. I shift in my seat, uneasy with his confrontation.

“What about that lost robo-dog that followed you for hours? You took him into your apartment, recharged him, and found his owner. Could’ve just kept him, sold him, or turned him into scrap, but you didn’t.”

“Who the fuck would turn a poor robot dog into scrap?”

“Monsters, that’s who.” He cups my cheek with his large hand. He’s wearing his rings today, and I almost feel them pressing into my skin. “You’re not one of them.”

“But… I did so much that—”

“But you regret it, wanna change. You don’t do it because it’s fun, you do it because you have to.” He pauses to think. “Come to think of it, you’re like me in that regard. I didn’t do ‘Saka for shits and giggles, I did it because I had to. Because no one else had the balls to stand up to the fuckin’ corpos.” He looks away, now monologuing aimlessly as if to prove something. “It wasn’t just about Alt. Started that way, but then I realized I wasn’t just getting revenge for her, but for everyone else they screwed over. The people I meant to kill deserved to die, and the collateral… Well, there’s not much I can do about it now. But know that I regret it.”

“I kill people even when I don’t have to, like that man Gunner asked me to—”

“Actually, you did it because you had to.”

“That’s not what you thought back then.”

“Well, maybe I was wrong,” he admits bitterly, looking away. It’s like seeing a unicorn. “Only saw the consequences, what I woulda done because my body count is pretty damn high and I don’t want to make it even higher, but knew deep down that we had no other choice.”

“There’s always another choice…” He made sure to repeat that over and over.

“Maybe, but you’re right, we wouldn’t have found it in time. Same with Saul. Don’t beat yourself up over it, you had to do it to make that netrunner cunt listen. I see now that goin’ back to NC to run a couple of odd jobs to pay her would’ve led to more sticky bullshit. Another Gunner and another Orta and another Camille.”

I squint at him, wondering if it’s just my mind’s influence on his. It can become messy when two heads practically merge into one, but his thoughts sound genuine, his own. Maybe he’s finally becoming reasonable. 

It’s exhausting, having a voice in your head that is the angel to your devil and the devil to your angel with no apparent rhyme or reason.

But… I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I lift my hand to touch his face, but the door slides open.

A tan woman with black hair tied into a neat, tight bun walks in, hands behind her back. Her high-heeled stride is tense, and there’s a deep scowl between her pierced brows.

“Who are you?” she asks curtly. “Where’s my mom?”

Johnny moves and I stand, lifting the katana to her level. I flick it toward the lone sofa in the corner. “Sit down, Nova. I’d like a chat.”

She glances lazily at my katana. “Are you the one that called? Did you get a body bag? How much do I owe you?”

“My dear, your mother didn’t flatline.” I force on a sweet smile. “But she was gonna, since you left her alone for God knows how long.”

“She’s not dead?” she asks with a snarl. “Whatever, I’m going home. Call me when you finish the job.”

Through Johnny’s link, I interface with the door and close it in her face. She turns, her fuming expression unwavering.

“I said, sit your ass down before I turn you into a fucking torso.”

She rolls her eyes and clicks to the sofa. She carefully takes a seat as if disgusted by the state of the apartment, and raises a brow expectedly.

“When’s the last time you’ve been here?”

“Three weeks,” she says without blinking. “What’s it to you?”

I have to pause to regain my composure. “You left your elderly mother alone for three… weeks…”

She shrugs.

I inhale and exhale, calming myself. My grip tightens around the hilt. I want nothing more than to introduce her to Mr. Alpha-Bungarotoxin, but I hold back.

I step forward until the dull part of my katana is against her leggings. “Do you know what this is?”

She looks right at me. “A gonk that thinks she’s scary?”

“No, this is a neurotoxin-coated Arasaka katana, one of the deadliest blades in Night City. One cut will flatline you in less than two minutes. You will feel yourself dying but won’t be able to do anything about it, just like what you forced your mother to experience.”

She doesn’t reply.

“You will take your mother out of this shithole and into your house, and you’ll take care of her better than you ever did before, you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand.”

“Fuck, then I’ll make you.”

I toss my katana to the side, grab her by the collar and drag her to the open window. I shove her out of it, loosely holding on to her so she doesn’t plummet.

“You crazy bitch!” she screams. “Let me go, right now!”

“You sure about that?”

She instantly realizes what she said. “No! Pull me back in!”

“I don’t think so, not until you promise to take care of your mother.”

The wind loosens her bun. She wriggles, attempting to pull herself back up, but to no avail. “Fuck you! I ain’t doing shit!”

“Then I suppose I can let go after all…” I remove my index finger. “Think your mother will adore the insurance money.”

“Wait, wait!”

I raise my brows, smiling.

“F-fine! I’ll fucking take care of her, fuck!”

“Yeah? You’ll take her to your house?”

“Yes!” She looks down at the height and starts shuddering. Her feet scrabble for purchase, knees hitting me in the chest. “Yes!”

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna reverse-restraining-order your ass. I’m gonna tag you and your mother, and I’ll check on you every now and then. If you’re further than thirty yards from her out of work, I’m gonna come over and make you forget the last five years of your life.”

I hear Johnny chuckle behind me.

“You’re crazy!” she cries, voice lost in the high wind.

I smirk. “Why, thank you.”

I lift her up and throw her toward the bedroom. She scrambles to stand, one of her heels snapping with the movement.

“Go on, go say hi,” I say sweetly. She almost complies, but then I say, “Oh, one more thing before I forget.”

“What is it now?!”

“Do you know a man called William Ajax?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C816p-KTNk

Nova was _kind_ enough to give me tidbits of vital information about William Ajax. He used to live in the megabuilding alright, but moved a while back and settled somewhere in Santo Domingo, continuing his home business of silk accessories. Very few people have actually seen him, even less know his real name. I relay the info to Max as I drive aimlessly through town.

“I found out some about him too,” he says, “he worked once or twice with some of the contacts I went to investigate, they helped me rule out some of the potential locations he might’ve taken residence. Also I realized something—there’s something in Chinese and Japanese culture that is called the _Flowers of the Four Seasons_. Can you guess which ones?” 

“The ones the killer uses?”

“Bullseye. Orchid, lotus, plum blossom, and chrysanthemum,” he says before a sip of Cognac. “Three parts of the _Four Gentlemen_ as well.”

“So, how can we use this info?”

“He could be just a fanboy, but the killer might be honoring the traditions of his ancestors, using his art to either signify the seasons or the virtues the flowers symbolize. One of these virtues is purity, ring a bell?”

I bite my lip hard. “Fuck, good find.”

“That could help us discover his true identity. I can probably find the bastard now, just need some time.”

“How long?”

“Don’t know yet, but it might be a week.”

Dammit, we might not have that long. “What if the killer decides to strike again?”

“There’s nothing we can do about that, Dipper. Night City is huge, and we’re stretched thin. We’ve done what we can camouflaging the girls, and Sixth Street is patrolling Santo Domingo, but it might not be enough. We can’t keep an eye on every potential victim in the city.”

It’ll have to be enough. I had to cut corners—and cut down a lot of people I shouldn’t have—to eventually catch him in time. It would be all for naught if he ends up attacking again.

“Where were you a few hours ago?” I ask out of nowhere. I couldn’t help but get a knot in my stomach at his absence, despite finding it a minor advantage. He could’ve been anywhere, facing anything, without telling me, much like what I did to protect him before heading into the megabuilding.

I sigh. There’s a lot we share in common.

“Was finishing up the leads,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah, I know, I just…” I clear my throat. “I was worried he got you, or something.”

“It’ll take a lot more to take me down, trust me.”

I fix my eyes on the road. I really hope he’s as sturdy as he claims.

“What’s our next move?” I ask him as I turn the corner, not knowing where I’m heading.

“Actually, I’m giving you a day off.”

“What?”

“You really sound like you need the downtime. No more work for a couple of days. Kick back and relax.”

“Max,” I say sternly. “I’m not going to kick back while Chrysanthemum is still out there.”

“I get it, no rest for the wicked and all, but you’re no use to me if you’re exhausted and bored.”

“I’ll tough through it!”

“No you won’t, not on my watch.”

“But—”

“Go do something that makes you happy. I don’t wanna see you working this weekend.” He sounds like what he used to in the good ol’ days, scolding me over stealing or skipping my chores.

“What about—”

“I’ll take care of it. By the time you’re done with your vacation, I’ll have the bastard’s real name and where he could be.”

I grit my teeth. There seems to be no point arguing with him. And besides, I really do need to relax…

“Go on, I’ll see you later,” and he drops the call.

Johnny wastes no time and leans over to leer at me. “What do you think we should do now? You wanna go to a concert? Throw shit at signs? Rock climb? Fuck?”

It’s three pm, but, “Actually, I need a drink.”

* * *

Johnny’s jaw falls open as I park by the Afterlife. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“What?” I ask as I exit the vehicle. “I thought you liked this place.”

He flickers and reappears beside me. “Sure, once upon a time. Now it has way too many memories attached to it, would probably combust if I walk in.”

“Quit being dramatic. Let’s get a fuckin’ drink.”

“Hope you’re not turning into your daddy, don’t think we have enough eddies for a liver transplant right now.”

He follows me down the syringe-infested stairs, stepping over drunkards and drug addicts sleeping in pools of their own vomit. The exposed pipes spray cold mist at us as we walk past, and a few drunkards who are still upright brush past me, eager to see the sun again.

Emmerick tries to smile when he sees me, but his cheek implants restrain it to a tiny grimace. “V, been a while!”

I fist-bump him. “It has.”

“I gotta warn you, shit is real messy in there after Rogue… you know.” He gestures to the crowded bar. “Biz is booming since the news spread, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep the place from fallin’ down on top of us. Claire and Crispin are tryna keep things in check, but it’s not an easy job.”

Was pretty easy for Rogue, I miss her.

“You and me both…” Johnny mutters.

Emmerick moves to let me pass, and I make a beeline to the bar, where Claire is busy at work serving about a dozen customers. Her sleeves are wet and her fringe is practically stuck to her sweaty face, but she looks as pretty as ever.

“V, hey,” she greets while stirring a glass of something. “Long time no see.”

I shrug. “Been busy.”

“Of course, but that doesn’t exempt you from a visit. If you don’t show up at least once a month, I’ll assume someone flatlined you and sold your body for a grand.”

“Just a grand?” I pretend to be offended, putting my hand on my chest. “I thought I was worth a lot more.”

“Not with that attitude.” She winks, and moves to serve the waiting customer. She walks back. “So, the usual?”

“Actually, hit me a Johnny Silverhand.”

She smirks. “Really? Well then… I hope you're not priming yourself to head into 'Saka again.”

I watch her prepare the drink with a smile, pouring tequila into the cleanest glass she finds. Johnny wedges himself between my barstool and another, not finding a place to sit.

“Speakin' of which, what’ve you been up to since that?” she asks as she expertly adds a splash of Mexican beer.

“You know, this and that, doing whatever I can to stay sane.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She sprinkles in chili flakes. “By the way, Rogue woulda wanted you to take over.”

I doubt I’d carry the torch well. I wouldn’t be a good fixer. I know how to follow orders, not give them. I shake my head.

“Pity.” She places the drink in front of me with a sweet grin. “Woulda been a great boss.”

“Sure, or a great little fuckup,” I joke and take a sip of my drink. Johnny glances appreciatively, enjoying the tangy taste of his favorite drink.

“Well, see you around, gotta run,” she says quickly before heading to her next customer.

I take my drink and settle in the first empty booth I find. I’m sure I won’t be disturbed, and if so, I’d just flash my katana.

“Or, you’ll use words, like a normal person,” Johnny says, appearing next to me, ankle on his knee.

“Sure.”

An already-lit cigarette appears between his fingers. He slicks back his lush hair away from his face. “You know, what went through your head on the road to that megabuilding made me think.” He narrows his eyes. “I already saved you from death twice, what makes you so sure I wouldn’t again?”

I finish my drink and look at him. “You mean you’d restart my heart and drag me to Viktor?”

“More or less, that is if your head was still on your shoulders.”

The idea isn’t meant to be terrifying, but it is. If Johnny can save me from death over and over again, doesn’t that mean I’m immortal? I don’t want to be immortal, not really. Regrets would just keep piling until I can’t even walk anymore from their sheer weight, and there would be no end in sight for any of it. Immortality doesn’t seem like the paradise people think it is. Sure, one would use the infinite time to do something for humanity’s sake, to explore the world, to understand it, but then what?

It could be said that Johnny himself is immortal. Johnny and Alt and Saburo and everyone whose digital soul roams the Net. As long as the Net remains, those souls would find a way to exist indefinitely.

This is why I’d never agree to be imprinted on a chip, I don’t want eternal life.

“Gee, that makes me feel a lot better about myself, Valerie,” Johnny says dryly. “Come on, it ain’t so bad.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Are you sayin’ you wouldn’t want me to resuscitate you if you flatline?”

I squeeze my lips together, running my tongue between them. “Maybe at some point?”

Johnny pauses, leaning back to get a good look at me. “You serious?”

“All I’m saying is… I’d hate to be revived over and over when I’m eighty-eight, shitting myself, and my organs are failing me.”

“Sixty years… by then I’d probably not want to live _myself_.” He chuckles.” You don’t have to worry about me forcin' you to live if you don’t want to or can’t.”

“And before that?”

“Before? Fuck…” He runs a knuckle across my cheek. “I’d revive you over and over again, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I guess that’s expected, we share a body after all, and Johnny’s surprisingly not yet depressed enough to give up on life.

“It’s not just that. I won’t give up on you either, I hope you know that.”

My heart squeezes at his words. No one ever cared like he does.

Not caring if anyone’s watching, I lean in and lightly put my lips against his own. He reciprocates, wrapping his arms around my back. One hand phases through the fabric and brushes down my back. I sigh eagerly.

“Should just take you into the bathroom,” he whispers hoarsely against my lips. “I know just the spot.” 

“Of course you do. You probably had many girls at the end of your cock while on the toilet.”

He laughs. “You know me too well.”

* * *

I sit in the spare bedroom, at a desk Max set up for me when I complained about the room’s cold emptiness. He’s nowhere to be found, probably out and about trying to get a netrunner or a fixer to help us out. Well, at least I won’t have to kill another person to earn a favor.

I sigh for the twenty-eighth time this hour. I get up from the desk and start pacing, hands behind my back. With nothing better to do, I decide to raid Max’s kitchen.

In his fridge, there are leftovers from yesterday’s dinner, synth ham, a couple cans of Spunky Monkey, plastic pans of ready-to-eat meals, and two bottles of horseradish. Sighing, I grab a Spunky and shut the fridge. I turn the can in my hand, noting the vivid color. I’ve never liked it, but it’s one of the few non-alcoholic beverages on the market these days, and I need my senses to stay sharp until Max comes back.

Plus, I can’t handle another hellish hangover right now.

I sit on a stool by the island and open it, taking a sip. Johnny is leaning against the door frame of my room, giving me a look.

“What?”

“Things would be a lot easier if you stop acting like there’s a worm up your ass.”

I exhale roughly. “I can’t control my anxiety, Johnny.”

“You can relax, that’s what you can do.” He walks over and leans against the island. “Bad for your skin worrying that much.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Johnny suddenly narrows his eyes, and an idea alights in his brain. Before I could investigate it through our link, he blurts out, “What about the braindance machine?”

“What? What machine?”

“The one Judy made you.”

I cock my head. “What about it?”

“Why don’t you fetch it and we’ll test it out together?”

For some reason, a knot appears in the pit of my stomach at the implication. “What for?”

“To get your mind off of things. Think we can do all manner of shit in it we can’t out here.”

I don’t have the courage to ask him to clarify. “Where would I even—”

“You left it in the trunk, remember?”

Oh yeah, I did. I was so busy that I didn’t think of bringing it up to my apartment, and an extra wreath is in the glove compartment.

“Go get them,” Johnny encourages, looking away to hide a smile. 

I mentally prepare myself and stand, making my way to the building’s garage, where I found space to park my car. As I step over oil spills and spare tires, I try to calm the odd sensation coursing through my body. If all goes according to plan, I’d get the chance to finally meet Johnny in the flesh. The idea is exhilarating, though a little terrifying. My anxiety shoots through the roof as I reach into my trunk, hauling out the prism-shaped machine. What if he doesn't like me? What if I like him too much and refuse to leave, becoming a BD addict?

I swallow hard as I reenter the apartment. Johnny doesn’t look up, but notices my presence. I study him closely; he seems antsy, shifting his weight constantly, uncrossing and recrossing his arms. It feels good to know I’m not the only one that wants to chicken out.

He follows me to my room. I balance the large machine on my nightstand and pick up the wreath. I interface with it, linking it to the machine, and it blinks, confirming.

Johnny is behind me, though he’s barely moving. My heartbeat quickens, and I roughly throw myself on the bed as if to mask the thudding sound. He follows, slowly sitting on the end of the bed with his hands in his lap. I’ve never seen him look so comically shy and worried, like a child at the principle’s office, but then again, we’re about to do something big.

For a moment, neither of us do anything. I tighten my grip around the wreath, wanting to put it on but not really. My legs become weak, my face becomes cold and blood rushes to my ears. Am I even supposed to go under while this nervous?

“Just put it on, Val. I’m not gonna bite.”

Even though he’s not looking, I nod. I place the wreath around my head, adjusting it until it’s tight against my forehead. I interface again and command the machine to start.

The wreath blinks brightly, changing my brain waves and easing me under. The last thing I see is Johnny turning to me with a feather-soft smile.

* * *

When I open my eyes again, I see a beautiful, lush seascape. Soft, powdery sand is beneath my feet, and seagulls are crying above, swimming in the sapphire sky. Waves crash against a stone formation in the distance, and a few paces forward, the shoreline is frothy with sea foam, overrun with pebbles and colorful, empty shells. A few fish leap out of the water, escaping from a predator.

The sea stretches on, filling the horizon. I don't know if the scene's based on an actual location up top.

I step forward, mesmerized. I’ve never seen a beach so beautiful, so clean. Night City’s own is disgusting, its sand yellow with piss and overrun with trash, and the sea's practically dead—most of the sea life went extinct before I was born, leaving lead-congested, hardy green fish that are almost inedible.

When my feet are in the water, I let out a content sigh. I can feel everything—the silky caress of the waves seeping into my shoes, the golden sun shining on my back, and the whispering wind playing with my hair.

“Looked just as good back in my day.”

With a start, I turn and almost lose my footing, sending splashes around me. Johnny is standing there, dressed in a completely different outfit, a t-shirt and sweat pants, fit for a lazy afternoon. Never seen him like that, looks so... domestic.

He slides his hands into his pockets as I begin to approach, eyes never leaving mine. He’s watching me with a melted, knowing look. Wind blows and moves his hair from his face.

Standing before him, I lift a hand and ever-so-slowly move it to his chest. I stop a mere inch away, trying to cope with the fact that I’m gonna touch him. Holy shit, I’m about to touch Johnny.

“Any day now,” he says with a chuckle, and he takes my hand into his own. And it’s warm and softer than I expected but his fingertips are rough and hard and he’s smiling and—

He places my hand on his heart, and his heartbeat leaps at my touch. He has a heartbeat, Johnny has a heartbeat…

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he teases, squeezing my hand.

I’ve never wanted to cry so badly in my life. I take in a shaky breath, pulling my lip between my teeth.

My hand crawls up to his neck, and my eyes follow the movement, enchanted. I move my hand up again and I feel his beard, soft and somewhat short. His cheekbone follows, it’s pink as if he’s been in the sun for a while, and so warm that I suck in a breath.

He mirrors that, cupping my cheek. He moves in.

I stop breathing. He’s going to kiss me, I’m gonna feel his lips _for real_. I don’t think I can handle that.

But he doesn’t listen to my silent plea and our lips connect. There’s no fear of him phasing through, and so he deepens the kiss almost instantly, and I melt against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He holds me close, hands descending to my waist, leaving fire wherever they land. My throat tightens and I squeeze my eyes shut. Kissing him is nothing like I imagined. It’s certainly not like the light, careful pecks we shared in dark rooms, eager yet worried about feeling the awkward sensation of him sinking in. This is much more, it’s real and raw and I can feel everything about this moment.

He pulls away slightly, his breath hitting my wet lips. “Fuck…”

Fuck indeed.

Before I could recover, he kisses me again, this time darting his tongue forward and curling it around mine. I moan into his mouth, holding on to him, inhaling his heady scent. He smells like leather and cigarettes, though none are in sight.

Pulling away, he wraps me with his strong arms, putting his chin on the top of my head. I fit perfectly against him, like adjacent puzzle pieces, and I wish I could capture this moment and preserve it forever.

A minute later, he lets go. He takes my hand and leads me to an unlit campfire. The sight of it reminds me momentarily of the Aldecaldos camp, but I quickly force myself to forget the image.

We take a seat side-by-side on the logs placed around it. Johnny looks around at the scenery. Judy must’ve packed it with the collection because she has her own relationship with such a place.

“You know, this reminds me of the spot I used to visit to write music.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, was something I picked up from Kerry. Bastard liked the beach more than his damn self, went all waxing poetic whenever he heard the waves. Made fun of him until I tried it myself. It’s true, a quiet evening on the beach with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of tequila can do miracles.”

I inch closer to him until our shoulders are touching. I want to feel as much of him as possible. “What’d you write?”

He hums, thinking. “I wrote one after an acid binge. Took me ten minutes, which is crazy.”

“What’s it called?”

“Done and Done For,” he says, a proud smile appearing. “Never made it to Samurai, felt it’s too personal for the masses.”

I get a random thought, probably one that lodged itself into our link. “Can you play it for me?”

He smiles and looks away, and I sense him interfacing with the BD. A sleek, black guitar materializes out of nothing beside him, flickering to life just like one of his cigarettes. He picks it up and lays it across his lap.

Suddenly, he chuckles, remembering something. "Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a guitar-shaped door handle?"

It's so completely random that I burst laughing. "What?"

"I was sloshed, doing shots with Samurai after a gig. I went to the bathroom for a piss, but then I saw that the door to it had this giant, golden electric guitar attached to it. Supposed to be a handle. I spent ten minutes trying to pry it off until security stopped me."

I laugh, sounds like him.

"They kicked me out, but I snuck back in and managed to snag it. Next day I woke up with massive, stabbing chest pain. I stood up, unzipped my jacket, and the fuckin' door handle fell out. Couldn't remember where I got it from until Kerry told me."

I shake my head. "Is there something you _haven't_ done?"

"Could think of a few things." He winks, but doesn't say more.

As he recalls the song he wrote, I hear it in my own mind. The BD seems to be intensifying our link, and the music from the memory is crystal-clear. I part my lips in shock.

It cuts short and Johnny holds the guitar in position, and starts playing. I already know what it sounds like, know how to strum it and sing it because he can, but it still manages to knock the breath out of me as soon as it starts.

It’s a soft, slow melody, he probably wouldn’t be caught dead playing it in real life. But it’s more my pace, I’ve always preferred slow jazz to rock.

Not that I’d ever say that to his face, he’d probably kill me in my sleep.

As the song picks up, Johnny starts singing in an angelic voice, so different from the usual monstrous screams his other songs require.

“Wait and listen, to the sound my heart makes, so dark, like a black hole gone to waste… She tells me I’m the light of her century, but baby, I’m done and done for…”

I have no idea who the song is about, even with Johnny’s heart and mind bare for my probing. Could be about Rogue, Alt, or any other girl that got away. But whatever it is, I feel it in my bones. The utter misery of finding yourself at rock bottom. I’ve been there more than once, saw beasts and demons and everything in between down there, most of them I found within. It’s not easy to claw your way out, and so easy to give up, to let go, to sink and never try again.

But I did, and he did. We’re here now because we climbed out. Had to lean on each other last time we did, but we made it out.

The song ends and I instantly feel the need to hear it again. Johnny doesn’t look up from his guitar.

“Kind of miss it, you know,” he says weakly.

“Playing music?”

“Writing it, making it, playing it for others, helping people through tough times with it. There’s nothing like it. Only time I ever felt free was on stage.”

I’ve never considered that, how he was sealed off from something he lived and breathed. I’d given him a taste of it when I let him take over to play with Kerry, but it’s not the same as being there, in the flesh, playing as one big dysfunctional family.

I could let him take over every now and then, but Kerry wouldn’t want to revive Samurai for real, and Johnny wouldn’t want to be a solo act. It’s a wish that might never be fulfilled.

“Tell you what.” He smiles sadly. “Playing for you is more than enough.”

“I’ll always be here to listen.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

The guitar disappears and he takes my hand. He entwines our fingers together—something that wouldn’t be possible outside of BD. We take a moment to look at the connection appreciatively, knowing it’s finite.

My thoughts stumble and I think about Chrysanthemum again. Johnny sighs, looking at me.

“Let it go,” he urges.

“I… can’t…”

“Just for a moment.”

“I can’t help but wonder if Max is safe. He refused my help and he’s out in the open now. The killer could stalk and kill him and I’m just sitting here.”

He scowls, looking offended. “Can’t just spend a few minutes with me without worryin’ about shit?”

“It’s not… shit.” I let go of his hand, and his scowl deepens. “You know he’s the only thing I have left. I can’t have him dying on me!”

“You didn’t give a fuck about him before.”

I scramble to form a coherent excuse, but the first thing comes out automatically, “Now’s different.”

“Why? Did you forgive him out of nowhere?”

My eyes widen. He can’t talk about this, especially not in here, where every sensation seems amplified.

“You told me you’d talk about it eventually.”

“I—” I gulp and scoot away a bit. “Not… can’t now.”

“When?”

“When I’m ready.”

“When’s that?”

“When I’m ready,” I repeat, firmer this time.

“So, never?”

“Fuck!” I exclaim, anger bubbling inside me. I quickly stand and face him. “You really wanna fuckin’ hear it? I’ll fuckin’ tell you! Once upon a time a man and a woman fell in love and got married, they had two kids with one on the way. But there was a fuckin’ problem, the woman liked implants a bit too much, spent every last eddy on them. She’d replaced all her internal organs by thirty-two without telling her husband, and then began to replace her limbs. The man freaked out, telling her she’d snap and go batshit, but she didn’t listen. One day, while she was cooking dinner, she took a knife and gouged out the eye of her eldest daughter. The girl ran out and her father found her. He walked in and shot his wife point-blank, over and over, saying _I told you so_. He flatlined her and his unborn child. The fuckin’ end.”

Johnny already knows the story, but he stands and gathers me into his arms. I let my mask fall and I cry, sobbing into his chest until there’s a wet spot on his t-shirt. He runs his fingers through my hair, whispering gentle words as he rocks us.

It feels so good to finally let go, to let the dam burst and release everything all at once. I had to be strong, to look strong, because Night City doesn’t forgive weakness, but takes advantage of it. The weak are easy prey to the rich and powerful, and I’ll be damned if I let them touch me.

But with Johnny, I can be myself. Hell, I didn’t even need to say it, he already knew, just wanted me to tell it to _myself_. He doesn’t judge me for my past, or my shortcomings. He’s always there to hold me just as he is now.

When I calm down and my tears dry, Johnny doesn’t let go. I soak in his warmth for a couple more moments.

But then, we get the same wretched idea at the same time.

I pull away and look at him. We search each other’s eyes, conversing without words.

“Fuck, you think so?” he asks, concern clouding his gaze.

It’s utterly terrifying to even consider, but the possibility has to be entertained.

Hates cybernetics? Check.

Has a weird relationship with green-eyed blonds? Check.

Disappears every now and then with no proper explanation? Check.

Moves around a lot? Check.

Knows his chemical compounds? Check.

Has managed to stay on Chrysanthemum’s elusive tail as if he’s him? Check.

Artist? Who knows? The man I know from my youth is not the man I know now, just as much as I’m not the person I was before.

A deep sensation of overwhelming dread bursts inside me. I hold onto Johnny’s neck for dear life.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc993kmXHIk  
> Ummm you might wanna sit down for this one...

My eyes snap open.

My room feels cold, uninviting, but I realize it has always felt so, even after all the adjustments. Maybe my senses were trying to tell me something, that I’m at the wrong place, living with the wrong person.

I quickly stand, ignoring the dizziness that assaults me as I rip off the wreath. Johnny is in the corner, looking like he’s going to be sick. Without thinking, I grab his Malorian from the nightstand and slide it into my waistband.

I slowly tiptoe out of the room. The house is empty, but he could be back any moment now. I stride to his armory slash surveillance room. I haven’t yet seen it, ignoring his offer of putting my weapons there. I prefer them within reach, especially in a place that isn’t my own.

I suppose my concern wasn’t unfounded.

I stand in the shadow of the door. Whatever I’ll find inside might change everything.

I enter.

It’s small, filled to the brim with weapons, gadgets, screens, and boxes of tofu bars. I could lock myself in here and survive an apocalypse.

There’s a wall mount holding neatly-lined guns, some I recognize from his law enforcement days, especially the pistol he used to flatline my mother. If I were him, I would’ve tossed it in the lake, buried it in the desert, shoved it down a garbage chute, done _anything_ so I could never lay eyes on it again. But he kept it, like a fucking memento.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to be steady.

I stand before the wall of screens and look at each. There’s a camera for the garage, another for the doorstep, one for the alley behind the building, another for the lobby outside the apartment. Thankfully, there aren’t any for the bedrooms or the bathroom. At least he has the tiniest bit of decency.

I interface and rewind the garage camera. I see myself fetching the BD machine, and hours before that, I see Max leaving to do whatever. The rest of the saved footage is more of the same. I try another screen, but find nothing of note.

This is pointless. If Max is the killer, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t leave proof of it in his database.

I move away from the screens and look around. There aren’t any chemical compounds—no formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, or propofol. No syringes. No sewing kit. No bolts of silk. Nothing.

I walk out of the room and search his bedroom, looking under the mattress and through his dresser, nothing.

But as I considered, he could be doing it all off-site. He wouldn’t invite me to his apartment if he did it all here. Otherwise, I would’ve found out by now.

Suddenly, the front door’s knob twists and Max walks in hurriedly. “Valerie?!”

I stay still, but my hand feels for the gun.

“Dipper, where are you?! I think I can find out where he is!”

A current passes through my body. He can find the killer?

He’s lying. _He’s_ the killer. I will not listen to any more of his lies.

Max marches through the corridor to my room, but I slip out behind him and quietly sprint to the exit. I have to get out of here, now!

“Dipper, where are you going?”

My hand freezes on the knob. I slowly turn to face him.

Max’s eyes are tight with confusion. “Where are you going? Why are you in such a hurry?”

I press my lips together and stand tall. 

Nothing happens for a few moments, the air is still and heavy, thick enough that I can stab it. He looks as if he has a thousand questions on his tongue, but can’t muster the will to ask them, afraid of what he might hear.

Without thinking, I grab the Malorian and aim it at him. He steps back, shocked.

“Don’t you fucking move, Max.”

“Dipper… what…?”

“Don’t you Dipper me, you fucking murderer,” I shout, tears stinging my eyes. “On the ground, now!”

“Wait, you think I’m… You think I’m Chrysanthemum?”

“On the fuckin’ ground!”

“Valerie, hold on, let’s talk.” He raises his hands defensively. “What makes you think I’m the killer?”

“It’s obvious, _dad_.” I laugh bitterly. “You hate cybernetics, killed your wife over it, makes fuckin’ sense you’d kill and pedestalize girls that look like her because they’re pure, untouched by metal. You imagine them to be her. You want her to have been human, made of flesh and only flesh.”

“Me? I want to stop what he’s doing!” His nose wrinkles. “How would I even—”

“You killed my fucking mother. She had green eyes and blond hair, just like me, just like the rest of the victims. You wanted to do it again so badly, over and over again. To kill her _again_ and _again_ for what she did.” My hand is shaking at this point, but I keep it aimed and move forward, he steps back into the corridor.

“Valerie, look at me,” he begs, eyes welling. “I killed your mother because I had to.”

I burst laughing. Fuck… I am my father’s daughter alright, hiding in the shadows of bullshit excuses.

“I killed your mother because she was going to hurt you. She hurt your sister, and I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if she did more. I had to put her down, to put my son down, because I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You don’t give a fuck about me.” I hold the Malorian with both hands to keep it steady.

“That’s not true. Everything I've ever done was for you, for your sister. I moved here so I could look after you. I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

He ends up backing into my room. I stand in the door frame, leaning against it slightly because the unfathomable sensation running through me makes it hard to stand. I feel Johnny’s presence beside me, but he doesn’t say or do anything, just as terrified.

“I didn’t see it before, I was so stupid,” I whisper to myself. “I didn’t want to recall the past, but it gave me the truth, it made me open my eyes and see.”

“Valerie…”

“Was I gonna be your last victim? Is that the poetry you wanted to write? A full circle?”

“Dipper, listen to yourself!” he shouts. “I’m not what you think I am! Do you have any proof, or are you just guessing because of coincidence?”

I shake my head. “Too many coincidences, that means it’s true.”

“It’s not! That’s not how it works!”

“You’ve been in the killer’s shadow for a while now, despite him being an elusive bastard. Maybe you’re just the same person…”

“That’s what a PI does! A PI tries to stay right on the suspect’s heels!”

“What about the times you didn’t pick up your phone? What about that?”

His lips part and he puts a hand between us, as if asking a wild predator to stand down. “Valerie, please... Stop this. We have to work together, not against each other.”

“Answer me!”

He practically jumps an inch, flinching. “I was going after leads…”

I bite my cheek, adjusting my grip on the pistol. He’s not going to sway me with his excuses. “Get on the ground.”

Max looks at me, sheer horror in his eyes. I’ve never realized before how much I look like him. I took the colors from my mother, but took my father’s face, the shape of his eyes, his cheekbones, his chin. It makes me want to tear it off.

A tear falls from his eye. “I called you all day, but you didn’t answer. I wanted to tell you that I pinpointed his last location. There’s no way the killer is me, don’t you see that?”

I was in the BD, couldn’t hear him, maybe it’s for the best. I bet he would’ve lured me into his lair and killed me like the monster he is.

“I think you just want to get revenge on your old man,” he notes, and chuckles mirthlessly. “I don’t blame you. I killed your mother after all. I can’t convince you not to shoot me,” he tells himself, “not really. But I deserve it. I’ve been absent for so long, left you all alone, never apologized... I’d want to kill me too.”

At that, my aim wavers and my lip quivers.

“If you have to shoot me, do it. But before that, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for killing Sophia and breaking us apart, I have no excuse. You might not forgive me, but that’s alright, I just wanted you to know.”

My tears fog my vision, and I blink, letting them loose. My finger feels for the trigger. It would be so easy to blow his brains out, to relieve myself of all the torment he put us through. Chrysanthemum or not, he ruined everything.

I hook my index around the trigger, and swallow hard.

“I’m doing all of this for you, you know…” he says lowly. “I’m trying to hunt him down to secure your future, to protect you from him.”

“Stop…”

“But you need to know that.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, I know just what you are.” I blink, and more warm tears slip out, fast like rain. “I’ve always known. You’re nothing but a murderer. You murdered my mother, and you drove my sister away, and then you chased me to Night City to ruin my life some more.”

“You really think I’m that reprehensible?” he asks, heartbroken, eyes losing their light with every passing second. “Dipper, I know we haven’t been on the same page for a while now, but that doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. Put the gun down and let me prove to you that I’m not the killer.”

I shake my head frantically. “I can’t trust you.”

“You know I love you, right?” The lump in my throat tightens at his words, and I look away. “That I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and I would never hurt you.”

“You’re lying…”

He steps forward, extending a hand. “Give me the gun, and we can go look for Chrysanthemum together.”

“Stay back!” I fix my eyes back on him, pulling the trigger a hair. “I’m warning you!”

He lets his hand drop and closes his eyes, backing up until my bed is behind his legs.

Suddenly, a soft smile stretches across his face. He looks at me. “Remember when I taught you how to shoot?”

“…What?”

“It was a rainy day. You ran back from the ruins next to our town and barged into the house, soaked and angry. You walked up to me and told me that the neighbor’s son stole everything you found that day. You asked me to teach you how to defend yourself with a gun, because your knife wasn’t scary enough.”

I remember it clear as day. After much convincing, he took me out into the rain and let me hold his pistol, taught me how to use it. “Never aim it on someone you don’t intend to kill,” he said. “Better yet, only use it when you have no other choice.”

He sees the memories flitting behind my eyes, and his smile tightens.

He nods, giving me permission to shoot, like he once did many years ago under a gray September sky. He looks right into my eyes. “Shoot me, if you will, but there’s something you have to do.”

I don’t say anything, quivering in my shoes, snot running over my top lip.

“You have to let go of the past,” he pleads. “It’s only a burden, weighing you down until your nose is to the ground. You have to let go.”

His words run through me, prickling. He knows of my regret, of my pain, of my hatred. He knows that I want nothing more than to forget, but can’t.

I suppose we’re all similar, all three of us. Johnny, Max and I. We all have regrets, we all want to let go. He obviously couldn't, since he seems so adamant on killing young girls whose only fault is looking like his dead, cyberpsycho wife.

And Johnny… I don’t know about him, even as I’m connected to his mind. It’s hard to figure out whether he moved on from his atrocity or not. He’s definitely trying to repent, but I don’t know if he’ll ever let go of the mind-shattering guilt.

And… me.

I’ve been nothing but a monster. I wore my nickname like a medal, basked in others’ fear as they trembled at my approach, put my blade to corpos and workers and beggars… There’s no going back from what I’ve done.

There’s no going back from anything we’ve done.

And no matter how sorry Max is, he can’t undo the past. He can’t reverse what he’s done.

I pull the trigger.

I hear a soft thud, a body on a hard mattress. There is something warm and wet on my cheek, along my neck.

I refuse to take in the scene all at once. The Malorian was custom-made to use powerful, almost explosive rounds.

I look down at my feet, noting the splatter of blood on my shoes, on the ground trailing toward the bed.

Max is sprawled on it, arms spread like an eagle, half of his head blown off. The wall behind the bed is covered with a giant crimson stain, it reminds me of my mother for a moment.

My face feels numb. I can barely hear the outside world. I want to lift the gun to my temple and empty the clip.

But a text reaches my com before I could shoot.

I almost ignore it, but I glimpse some of it before the notification disappears.

_I have Judy Alvarez._

My world stops moving. Everything slows down to a halt. I can see dust speckles dancing in the air. I can hear my own heartbeat. I can feel the weight of my bones.

I open the text.

_I have Judy Alvarez._

_The coordinates are attached._

_The toxin will kill her in one hour._

_Good luck._

_Love, your friendly neighborhood artist_ 🌸.

Below that is a picture of Judy, staring up at the camera with a pinched expression. Her mascara is smudged with tears, and there’s a gag in her mouth.

The gun falls from my grasp. My legs become cold and I fall after it. It takes me a few moments to realize I’m screaming.

Johnny hurries to my side and carefully puts a hand on my shoulder. He pelts me with questions, but I don’t answer, I don’t even hear him.

I was wrong. 

I was wrong.

I was wrong.

I was wrong.

I was wrong…

Unless he scheduled the text to reach me in some convoluted way to save himself, knowing beforehand that I’m suspecting his involvement, Max wasn’t Chrysanthemum. It’s true, he was just trying to protect me, wanted to atone from his past mistakes so much that he’d pitted himself against his ultimate foe—one that eerily mirrors those very mistakes. I let my fear, anxiety, and bloodthirst get the best of me. It cost me my fucking father.

Oh god, I killed my dad…

I killed Max! I fucking killed my father!

My vision starts to blur and my stomach roils. I put my hands on the blood splatter and close my eyes, as if trying to reverse the time and undo what I’ve done. Cries tumble out of my mouth, coarse against my throat, coming from deep within me.

Johnny wraps his arms around my shaking form, whispering something. I keep screaming, barely feeling any of it.

The Malorian is right there. I can grab it and end everything right now, I could—

“Don’t even think about it,” Johnny mutters in my ear, sending a tug to my arms as if reminding me he could take over. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“J-J… Johnny…” I say through clattering teeth, putting my hands over his.

“I got you Val, I got you,” he whispers next to my ear.

“I… killed him, I—”

“ _Shhh_ …”

He holds me for a while as I weep. He puts a hand over my eyes when I try to witness the scene again. I feel my sanity slipping, but Johnny anchors it in place, forcing me to keep breathing.

I bite my lip and I taste copper. I… I have to—

Judy…

I have to save Judy. I have to be strong for her. I can have a breakdown later.

I crawl away from Johnny and force myself to stand. Averting my gaze from the body, I grab my katana from the side of my bed and ignore the Malorian. I stomp past him.

“Are you really fuckin’ going?!” Johnny asks wildly, appearing in front of me.

“Out of my way.” I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s hoarse, weak, empty.

I walk into the surveillance room and tear Max’s pistol from the mount, shoving it into my holster. 

Johnny looks at me like I’m crazy as I walk out, and maybe I am. “It’s an obvious trap. He might be lurin’ you away! He musta found out that we were this close to findin' him!”

“I don’t care! I have to save her! She’ll fucking flatline if I don’t!”

“He might be bluffing!”

“And it might be legit. I can’t take the chance. I’m going!”

“What if he uses the time to run?”

I clench my teeth so hard they hurt. “Well maybe I don’t fuckin’ give a fuck. He can go fuck himself for all I care.”

“Valerie, we can’t just—”

“Shut up!” I roar, letting every wretched emotion inside me bubble over and fuel my voice. “Just… shut up…”

I steel myself, pushing away the mountain of horror that’s about to fall on me, begging it to wait just an hour longer.

* * *

I’ve called practically my entire contacts list, desperate for help. Unsurprisingly, I got the usual responses—I’m busy, I’m not gonna work with you again, I don’t trust you, what’s in it for me?

Even Camille turned me down, saying that she’s done working with me for the moment. I would’ve given her anything, brought her the head of anyone.

But no one wants to help me rescue my friend. Everyone wants me to do my own dirty work.

Somehow, I can’t bring myself to be surprised about any of this. I caused it by donning the cloak of an untouchable menace.

Doing a favor for a demon might be something to consider, but said demon has a large chance of stabbing you in the back once you’ve outlived your usefulness. I shouldn’t blame them for thinking I’m unpredictable, it’s the mask I wore for years to seem stronger than I really am.

Panam would’ve helped. If not for me, then for Judy. But I’ve destroyed her, I’ve ruined her family. I don’t even find it in me to call her.

And Max… Max would’ve jumped at the opportunity, would’ve ignored my order to stay in the apartment.

Johnny is beside me, though his mind is half-lost in the Net, attempting to find any loopholes we could exploit here and there. But I doubt he’d find anything.

As I drive, the sight of Max’s body flashes in my mind, and I burst into tears out of nowhere. It hardly feels real. I killed him with my own two hands, thinking he’s the killer. I can still remember him smiling as I caught my first fish. Can still hear him laughing as I reached the top branch of the last real tree left in our town.

It’s all my fault… all of it is my fault. I should’ve listened to him and put the gun down. 

I was right, I _am_ a monster.

I’m worse than Chrysanthemum—he doesn’t kill his own family.

I swallow the pain just for now, and it burns on the way down. 

I have a friend to save. The only person I have left in this city.

The coordinates take me to the borders of the Arasaka Waterfront, a district in Watson which its namesake has a firm grip on, where numerous warehouses and docks of theirs service the giant tower looming over the city. Hundreds of their samurais are patrolling the district inside giant armored vehicles, equipped with the latest experimental cybernetics and weapons straight from the heart of the multi-billion corporation. But as I drive toward the coordinates, I notice a lot of Maelstrom presence bleeding over from Northside and Little China. Buildings tagged with their spider emblem, sprayed red and white and black. I also spot a few of their modified gangoons roaming around in vehicles, possibly counter-patrolling the district or planning a skirmish.

I reach the blip and park as close as I can. It’s a small abandoned building, with broken windows and a faded sign attached above a lopsided door. It reads _Dirty Throttle Repairs_. Across the building is a large, open area, filled with crates bearing Maelstrom’s emblem. Fuck, maybe they are preparing to take some of the district back soon. Won’t be pretty, I have to hurry.

After climbing the short set of cracked stairs, I jump over some rusted railings and march to the broken door. I kick it down swiftly and go in.

There are mountains of dust covering the counters and racks the owner abandoned. I have to hold my breath as I wade through.

I activate night vision and look around. The rest of the building is sectioned into a sparsely-furnished office, and a dark corridor leading to the garage. After scanning the office with my thermal vision, I move on to the garage. It’s large and empty, with a ridged metal roof where a bit of sunlight is peeking through the broken bits. It still smells of car oil and antifreeze.

“Look out!” Johnny screams behind me. 

I was so preoccupied that I failed to notice the combat robots waiting for me there. Their arms are heavy weapons—one a thick mantis blade and the other a minigun.

I dive behind a broken column just as the robots start firing, the echoing sounds of their bullets shake the building. Johnny stands in the open, surveying the threat for me.

“Could jam one, but only one!” he says, eyes still on them. “Gonna have to shoot the other once I tell you!”

I nod, holding my head tightly. He disappears.

I whimper as the bullets graze my hair, going through the metal rods of the reinforced concrete. Sharp bits rain on top of me, and hot bullets fall around me as I cower. The robots march forward, their steps heavy, thudding in my chest.

Fuck, Chrysanthemum isn’t messing around. For someone who hates technology, he seems to have a sure grip on it.

Or… perhaps he’s not working alone.

I ignore the ring in my ears and wait for Johnny’s signal. The robots are close, so close I can smell the smoke of their guns. I grab Max’s pistol and clutch it tight.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the weapon, my voice drowned out by gunfire.

Suddenly, the deafening noise lessens. I activate my thermal vision. The robot on the right is still.

“Now!”

I lean out of cover and fire, hitting the other robot straight in the middle of its chest, where the intricate computer operating it lies. Sparks fly out. The red-hot barrel of its gun keeps spinning, spinning…

But no bullets come out.

I fire at the jammed robot twice, dooming it to the same fate.

When I’m sure both robots have shut down, I finally breathe, falling against the column. My hands are shaking and my heart is beating so fast that I have to put a hand over it.

Johnny appears and crouches in front of me, hair falling around his face. “Hey, are you alright?”

I nod frantically, moving hair from my eyes.

He exhales in relief. “Rest a bit, don’t know what else might be around.”

I push off the ground, shaking my head. “We need to get going. We don’t have much time left.”

I force myself to stand on weak legs and look around. Judy is nowhere to be seen. Maybe I went to the wrong place? Maybe the killer gave me the wrong coordinates, misleading me for one reason or another? Maybe he’s lying about the entire thing?

Maybe… maybe it _is_ a trap, and I fell right into it.

“Wait, what about there?” Johnny asks, pointing to the far corner, where stairs lead to the basement.

I instantly move as fast as I could, pistol at the ready. Slowly, I descend, making sure I’m aware of any sounds. 

“Be careful, don’t know what’s down there,” Johnny says, sticking close to me.

I activate my network-sensors and study the wires running through the walls. They’re all inactive—no surprise turrets or cameras spying on me. My thermal vision detects a lone figure in the distance. Judy, must be Judy.

Breathlessly, I creep through the dim corridor, leaping over fallen racks and wrinkled cardboard boxes.

“Valerie, behind you!” Johnny cries. 

I turn and fire, but the bullet bounces off the attacker’s chrome shoulder. With a firm punch to my chest, the man knocks the breathe out of me and the pistol out of my grasp in one go. I fall, breaths shallow as they wrestle through my tight, painful chest. Must’ve broken a rib or two, fuck…

“Dammit, I told you to be careful!” Johnny screams as the man straddles me before I can recover, wrapping his fingers around my throat.

I reach for my katana, but the man slams his knees on my hands, trapping them. I hear the metal crushing under his massive weight. I try to yell, but it comes out a feeble wheeze.

I stare into the red eyes of the attacker. They’re not like mine, but glowing like the end of a cigarette. Half of his face is framed by metal, running down his neck, his chest. Is this the killer? Is he nothing but a borg that reminds me so much of Adam Smasher that I want to scream?

In a blink, I scan him. _Randall Estrada, 39. Wanted for assault, murder, arson. Maelstrom gangoon._

I take a few moments to comprehend. Chrysanthemum is Maelstrom? It’s either that, or he’s chooms with them. I don’t know which is worse.

I try to pry my hands from under his heavy weight, but the movement only sends a shockwave of pain through my body. I grit my teeth and kick my feet, but it does nothing.

My Kiroshis start to flicker as oxygen starts to run out. Johnny yells something, but I’m too far gone to know what it is.

Judy… I have to help her. I brought her into this mess…

But I can’t, there’s nothing in my body that seems to be working. I’m slipping…

“Valerie…” His voice seems distant, the way it was during those long nights at Vik’s clinic, after the relic began to mess with my head and I started having blurry dreams of his past.

Slowly, I see his outline. He’s peering over the shoulder of the man on top of me. I can’t see his face through the unforgiving fog, but I feel his emotions—fear, anger, despair…

Determination.

Johnny disappears, and terror courses through me. I want to see him, I want to know that I’m not dying alone. My thoughts are becoming scrambled, blurry, feverish. I lose sense of direction as veins throb along my temples, face becoming purple.

But then, the man stops squeezing. I gasp to breathe. His red eyes flicker once, twice…

And his head explodes, sending blood, brain matter and bits of metal my way. I turn my head to the side and cough, gagging and spitting. Hot pieces sizzle where they landed, burning my face and neck. I push the man away with all my might, and swallow air through my gaping mouth.

I cough so hard that my throat quickly becomes scratchy and raw. I crawl away from the body, using the haphazardly bent ends of my ruined fingers to pull myself forward, leaving scratches behind.

“Valerie…” Johnny whispers breathlessly. “Holy fuck. Holy _fuck_ …”

Despite the crushing pain, I have no time to rest. only a few minutes left for the toxin to flatline Judy. I push off the ground and stumble through the corridor, grabbing the fallen pistol on the way and shoving it into its holster. Johnny appears in front of me, unspeakably concerned.

“Take a moment to breathe,” he begs. “Won’t be any use to Judy if you can’t even walk.”

“I can!” I roar, my voice heavy and hoarse. I lean against the wall as I move forward, eyes fixed on the thermal print of a figure lying in a room at the end of the corridor.

I burst through the locked double doors, sending them off their hinges. Judy is in a heap in the middle, body bruised and clothes dirty. I fall to my knees before her and turn her face. She opens her dry, red eyes, but she doesn’t react to my presence further.

There is a cut across her cheek, and blood had crept down her face, pooling in her ear and crusting. I pull out the gag from her mouth.

Her skin is pale, heartbeat slow. Not much time left…

Using all the strength left in me, I pull her up and carry her in my arms. I try to walk out of the room without stumbling, but it’s hard. Every breath I take is sheer pain, pressing down on me like a truck.

Fuck. I only have to reach my car. I have a dosage of antidote in the glove compartment of the Porsche that will halt the toxin until I can take Judy to a hospital.

I don’t know how, but I make it out of the building. I squint through the afternoon sun and suck in the smog-marred air greedily, but my chest squeezes again. I hear a crack, and my left hand’s fingers snap off, cluttering to the ground like a bunch of marbles. Judy slips from my grasp, and I fall with her.

I start to cry, the action like a thousand piercing needles, but no sound comes out. I move the hair away from Judy’s face and look at her. Her eyes are still open, but she’s not reacting. She must be paralyzed, a prisoner in her own skin. I grab her by the collar and hold her close. I try to stand, but I’m powerless, her small weight a terrible burden.

I let her down slowly, making sure her head doesn’t collide with the concrete.

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. My face feels cold as ice. My breathing sounds rattled.

Oh, no…

My lung, the rib…

How the fuck am I supposed to carry Judy to the car with a collapsed lung?

Fuck, this is how it ends, then. I thought it’d be my bloodthirst or my paranoia that would kill me, but it’s my impatience under pressure.

I laugh at my predicament as hard as I can, wincing as pain erupts and branches across my chest.

“Val, please…” Johnny says, flickering into view. “Dump the chick and let’s go. You can walk.”

I want to tell him I will, but I can’t. I can’t lie to him. I can’t lie to myself. I can’t abandon Judy.

“Fuck off…” I wheeze.

“Call the car over. Know there are stairs but… fuck, we can try.”

“Won’t work,” I tell him through our link. “End of the line.”

“I’m not givin’ up, Val.” He presses his lips together and his eyes well. He feels it too, us dying, yet again. He knows it’s close. He might be able to revive me, but it’s never certain I’ll come back whole, if at all. “Let’s fuckin’ go. I’ll fuckin’ take over your legs if I have to. Please…”

I shake my head. I failed. I failed Judy, myself, Max, Night City... I failed everyone.

But then, I remember him.

Viktor, one of the few people I didn’t beg for help before heading to the coordinates. Maybe I let Max’s warning get to me. Maybe I’m afraid of the ripperdoc, of who he could be.

Or maybe I’m just afraid of asking my chooms for help. I don’t want to drag them into this like I did Panam and Judy.

But I have no other choice.

I call him, my mind a haze.

I wait for a few seconds that feel like centuries. I slowly lower myself to the ground, putting my cheek against the cold surface. It feels so good that I want to sigh, but it’s so, so painful.

I stare at Judy, wondering if I’m too late. I reach out and touch her hand. We’re the same temperature.

“V, how can I help you?”

I’ve never been so glad to hear someone’s voice before. “V-Vik…”

A pause. “Are you okay? You sound...”

I gasp for air. My eyes water as pain climbs up my throat. “H-help… me…”

Through my last moment of consciousnesses, I send him the coordinates.

And I close my eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cu8qsC1WLiE

When I wake up, I am met with the pink-neon-lined ceiling of Vik’s clinic. I blink my dry eyes. It takes me a while to remember why I’m here.

I quickly try to rise, but a sharp pain squeezes my chest, a lot more forgiving than the pain from before, but still horrible.

When my eyes adjust, I see Vik leaving his office stool and hurrying my way. I sink back on the age-spotted recliner as I feel my head spinning.

“How’re we doing, V?” Vik asks, coming up beside me to check my vitals on the terminal.

“W-where…” I try to say, but my voice is rough, weak. I cough and wince, holding my chest.

“Easy,” he says, pressing a few buttons and checking the IV bag. “You were out for a while, give yourself some time.”

I clear my throat and take a breath as deep as I dare. “What—”

“I had to peel you off the ground and rush back to the clinic. You had traumatic pneumothorax. Shit was looking real hairy, but I fixed your rib, and your lung seems to be healing fine. Oh, and I replaced your hands.”

They’re chrome, a different color from the rest of the implant. It looks awkward, but when I flex them, I’m surprised to see that they’re sturdy, strong, flexible. Won’t be a problem adjusting to them.

“Third gen, but they’re modded by yours truly.” Vik studies his handiwork. “They’re no Militech, but they’re the best I had on hand.”

I nod in thanks. “Where’s Judy? Is she okay?”

“Your friend? She’s fine.” I exhale slowly as relief slams into me. “Sent her to the medical center, the one a few blocks away. I stabilized her too but couldn’t do more, don’t have the equipment.”

I nod, grateful. “T-thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He then looks at me like a disappointed father. “How many times do I have to yank you from the brink of death for you to stop this?”

“Stop… what?”

He waves vaguely. “This, all of it. You almost died, kid, and I’m not talking about today. You should’ve learned a lesson by now. You almost died because of the relic in your head. You were lucky enough to stumble upon a way to more-or-less fix it, but don’t expect lady luck to stay on your side for the rest of your life. She only takes pity on us once.”

Not having the energy to say anything, I shrug.

He sighs. “Look, you’re the closest thing I have to a daughter. You and Welles…” His gaze sobers for a few moments, but he catches himself. “Don’t let the people that love you go through grief for no reason.”

“I had… to rescue my friend.”

He shakes his head and fetches a syringe, filling it with clear medicine from a vial. He inserts the needle in the IV bag and injects. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

I chuckle breathlessly. “No one wanted to help me…”

He looks at me then, eyes softening. I don’t want him to pity me, but fuck… I really am pathetic. I couldn’t even save my friend from a bunch of robots and…

The Maelstrom borg. Why was he there? I don’t believe he was just a random gangoon and I’d walked into his personal space, even if the district was filled to the brim with his kind. Else, he would’ve noticed the killer throwing Judy in the basement.

Or maybe, just maybe… he’s the killer himself, and Johnny’s flatlined him.

I have to look into this. I…

I have to do something about Max… I can’t leave him like that. I have to bury him, to mourn him, to drink myself into a stupor. I can’t do any of that in front of Vik, poor bastard got enough on his hands.

I start to peel the tape that’s keeping the needle inside my arm, but Vik slaps my hand away.

“Quit it.”

“I need… to go.”

“You’re going nowhere. You’re gonna sit here until you’re stable, then you’re gonna stop fucking around with Night City’s brightest.”

I let out a silent laugh. “Not sure it’s that simple.”

“Yes, it is. Quit what you’re doing, right now. Stop the merc work.”

“I’m not a merc!” I protest loudly, not caring if it hurts.

“Tomato-tomato.” He waves dismissively. “Either way, stop dating danger.”

“It’s not that fuckin’ simple, Vik!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, visibly done with this conversation, yet he pushes on. “You can work for me. Ripperdoc assistant, bodyguard, delivery girl, errand runner… not that I need any of that, but you need another job.”

I want to yell at him, but I don’t have the energy to do so. So I cross my arms and pout in my seat.

To give up the only thing I know how to do is not an easy thing, certainly not after so long.

Plus, I still have a murderer to catch, and I’ll need the wretched person I am to defeat him.

“Think on it.” He pats my shoulder. “Might do you some good. For now, let the painkillers do their work.”

I’m glad for that, at least. Hopefully, the painkillers will knock me out and delay the inevitable. I have to face what I’ve done, sooner or later… But I prefer later.

As he leaves to channel surf at his desk, Johnny appears. He’s sitting at the end of the recliner with his back turned and his shoulders slumped. I want to reach out, but I feel so, so tired.

“Johnny…”

“Was it really worth it, V?” he snaps suddenly, and I flinch.

Every ounce of me that wanted to touch him practically shrivels at his tone. “Not now…”

“You really care so little about your own life? Why didn’t you just leave her? We almost died! You can’t just assume I’ll always manage to revive your gonk ass. What if you were too far gone?”

I really don’t want to explain to him how absolutely despicable it would’ve been to leave Judy for dead. She’s the only one that’s truly been at my side since Jackie died. Panam might’ve been close, but I’m not sure she would’ve given me the emotional support Judy does. It’s not her style.

Plus, it’s my fault Judy ended up in this situation.

“You know, I went on and on how I was selfish back in the day, how I wished I hadn’t been.” His back curves even more as he leans forward to stare at his feet, unable to face me. “Maybe I was fuckin’ wrong. Maybe we have to be selfish to save our own hide. Not sure if anyone would care ‘bout us if we died, so we should care about that ourselves.”

I don’t answer, knowing that he doesn’t mean it.

“Oh, but I do mean it, Valerie. Show me one person who has our back in this damn city beside that useless chick.”

“John… stop…”

“Maybe you’re right. You’re right fuckin’ again.” He nods to himself. “Maybe we shouldn’t fuckin’ try to save them. None of them deserve it.”

It’s so painful to hear that, not just because it’s pure bullshit, but because it’s how I sounded, how I felt on the ride back from the Badlands. That poisonous part of me managed to infect him, and now it’s coming back to explode in our faces.

I get why he feels that way, I do. There’s nothing like the dismay I felt when everyone I asked for help turned me down. There’s nothing like the feeling of being alone. If it wasn’t Judy in that basement, I’m sure she would’ve helped me rescue whoever else Chrysanthemum could’ve taken. But it was her, and I only have her now.

And now, she might not forgive me for what happened, and I’ll lose her too. Fuck…

I really need to get out of here. I glare at Vik’s back, simultaneously hating and loving him for what he’s doing.

Wait...

Actually, I have Vik too…

The idea gives me much-needed strength. I’d never ask him to carry me across my battlefields, but it’s nice to know he’d do it.

And did he forget Kerry? Their relationship is as tangled as a Gordian knot, but he’s still a choom. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn us down if we asked for help.

Shit, even River... I don’t know him that well, but I’m sure he’s itching to repay the favor I’d done for him.

I kick my foot at Johnny’s hologram, relaying my thoughts to him. Night City is filled with horrible abominations that want nothing but to pull day-dwellers down to the dark side. But there are people out there who‘d never bend, never relent. People who’d hold onto the light forever. They're the hope of Night City, the hope of humanity.

They’re worth saving.

With no energy left in me to fight, I turn away from Johnny, and close my eyes.

* * *

Viktor stays awake for the remainder of the night, slurping mug after mug of coffee until his desk started to resemble that of a college student on finals week.

I slip in and out of sleep as my body recovers. Nightmares plague me, a scene of me shooting Max over and over. I wake up in a cold sweat every time, tears between my lids. 

Sleeping on the same recliner I almost died on twice before is a different kind of hell. I can vividly recall the days when I tossed and turned, half-lost in a memory or a feverish nightmare as the relic scrambled my brain.

When morning comes, Vik stands and stretches his large arms over his head. He walks over to me and checks the machines I’m hooked up to through lidded eyes.

“Lookin’ good. I’m gonna give you something for your throat.” He bends to take a pill bottle and gives me one with a glass of lukewarm Real Water.

After swallowing, I ask, “Does this mean I’m free to go?”

“Not a chance, missy. You’re gonna have to stay a couple more days until I’m sure you won’t randomly drop dead.”

I scoff, finding the notion ridiculous. “Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s my job to worry, especially since you won’t.” He looks at me sternly. “Won’t take that long, and it’s better safe than sorry.”

I roll my eyes. Vik can’t keep me here, I’m a grown adult.

But as I try to sit up, I find that my arms still feel like jelly. Not sure if it’s the painkillers he pumped me full of or just my condition.

“How’s your chest feel?” Vik asks nonchalantly, sure that he’s curbed any desire I have of escaping his clinic.

I take in a testing breath, but it’s still painful, tight. “Not… good.”

“As expected. The lung and rib are still healing. I’m gonna prescribe you some breathing exercises, kick your lung tissue back in action.”

I shrug, don’t have anything better to do.

He puts a palm on my abdomen, right under my lowest ribs. “Breathe in slowly, I want to see my hand rise.”

I comply, wincing slightly as pain throbs under his touch.

“Good, hold it for three seconds. Let go.”

I exhale.

“Keep at it for three minutes, four times a day.” He removes his hand and replaces it with my own, urging me to continue. “Don’t overdo it, you’ll bust your lung.”

“I need—”

“You need to take it easy and stop talking.” He almost walks away, but turns again, “Oh, and don’t dream of waving your katana around for a couple of weeks. Better yet, hang that thing above the fireplace and forget about your _Kill Bill_ fantasies.”

Fuck. I need to check on Judy, I need to protect her from the killer. I can’t sit here and twiddle my thumbs for the next forty-eight hours.

I’m sure she won’t like hearing from me after what the killer put her through, but I can’t help but bring up my contact list to stare at her name.

Sighing, I cave in and call her. I prepare myself for the string of curses that’ll come out of her mouth like a bunch of used anal beads.

“Hello?”

I bite my thumbnail, studying her hologram. Her face is still marked, but color has returned to her cheeks. “Judy, I’m so… so fucking sorry.”

Vik turns in his seat to glance at me, but doesn’t say anything, and goes back to tuning his detachable surgical implant.

“V?” She squints at my hologram.

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to face her. I mutter an apology under my breath over and over.

“V… your ripperdoc told Moira what happened, and she told me when I woke up.”

“What… what did she tell you?”

“She told me you were tryna save me and you almost got yourself flatlined.”

“T-that’s true.”

“Then why do you look so guilty? You saved my life.”

“I didn’t, Vik did,” I say needlessly, opening my eyes and finding that they’re full of tears. “And if I wasn’t in your life, you wouldn’t have been kidnapped in the first place.”

A pause. Her eyes flood with judgment, and I flinch. “What do you mean?”

I sigh. It’s not the time nor place to lay what I have to on her, but I have no choice.

I tell her that it was Chrysanthemum that kidnapped her, to stall our progress and attempt to keep Max and I apart. Judy looks away for a moment, thinking while chewing her bruised lip. I wish I could know what’s going on in her mind. But she’s not Johnny.

“V,” she says finally. “If you’re blaming yourself, don’t, because I ain’t.”

“But—”

“It’s not your fault, it’s the killer’s fault. That freak would do anything to run from justice.”

“But he took you because… of me…” I wrestle through the strain in my voice. “If you weren’t my friend, you—”

“If I wasn’t your friend, I would’ve missed all the good memories we made together, and I don’t want that.”

Tears slip out, staining my cheeks. I smile despite myself. “So you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, _tonta_.”

Oh how I wish for Johnny to be here so I could see his face. Here’s Judy, the girl that almost flatlined because of me. She’s willing to forgive me even after everything she went through.

I do have people that care, I do. And they deserve to be saved.

“Judy…”

“V?”

“When are you getting discharged?”

“Doc wants to keep me a week, but I'm sneaking out tomorrow, why?”

“I…” I swallow the emotion in my voice and try again. “I want you to help me with something.”

* * *

It’s been three days. Three days of feeling numb, distant, and unspeakably lost. Of running to the bathroom to throw up after a seemingly endless nightmare that almost tore my soul apart. Of sobbing until my eyes turned red and tears dried on my cheeks. 

Three days since I’ve laid Max to rest, putting his ashes in the columbarium. Judy, Kerry, Vik, and even River stood by me every step of the way. Vik pulled some strings and pushed Max’s name higher on the list of the crematorium, Kerry helped clarify my mistake to Trauma, River handled the police (who already didn’t care much, since Max was a retiree), and Judy…

Despite her still-recovering, shaky form, Judy stayed by my side through it all. This morning, she offered to help me clean up the spare room.

I’m on my knees, a stainless steel bucket of soapy water beside me. I watch as Judy tears off the bloody cover and sheets from the bed, tossing them into a wicker basket.

I sigh. I couldn’t let anyone else do this. Kerry offered to send his personal cleaning crew, but I refused. I can’t handle a bunch of strangers witnessing what I’ve done.

Judy, on the other hand, will never judge me. She looks at me after flipping the mattress to the other side, sighing.

“Hey, you okay?”

I nod slowly, unable to verbally answer her without wincing. Between the pneumothorax and the nights I spent crying into the pillow of Max’s bed, my voice sounds like someone scrubbed my voice box with steel wool.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I can do it by myself,” she offers, putting her gloved hands on her hips.

I shake my head.

She exhales and looks around, unsure what to say. She strides over and kneels in front of me, her disposable coveralls staining red.

I don’t meet her gaze, lost in my own world.

“V,” she calls, cupping my cheek. “I’m serious. Just head to the living room until I finish.”

“No.” Even if I don’t move, I have to look at the room. I have to realize what I’ve done. I can’t deny it forever.

Sniffing, she stands and takes the mop resting against the wall. She dips it into the bucket. “Suit yourself. I’m here for you, if you want to talk.”

I chuckle despite myself. Talk about what? How horrible I am? How I ruined Panam’s life, killed my own father, and almost failed to rescue my best friend from a situation I put her in? 

“No, thank you.”

Judy turns to glance at me, then goes back to cleaning. She wipes the dry, brown blood from the ground, grimacing when some of it sticks. I listen to the wet sound of her wrestling with the stubborn spots.

She blows air through her mouth once she’s done, wringing the filthy water into the bucket. She checks under the bed for more stains, but finds a bunch of empty Cognac bottles.

She pulls one out and waves it, getting my attention. “Is this new?”

I say nothing and busy myself with the sleeve of my overalls. It is new, Judy was asleep when it happened and Johnny was too miserable to stop me. After Max’s body was taken care of, I spent the night trying to drink myself to death where he once laid. I think it would’ve been a poetic death, dying in the same place he did. Too bad it didn’t happen, I would’ve deserved it.

Judy doesn’t say more, but the look in her eye tells me she understood. She’s no stranger to how insane one could get while mourning, especially if the death could’ve been prevented.

She clasps her hands together. “Look, I have no idea what to say, but I really want to say something. We can’t leave it like this.”

“We can.”

“You didn’t bring it up again after telling me about it. I’m…” Her clasp tightens until her nails are digging into the backs of her hands. “I’m worried…”

I look up. “Why?”

“Because… Well…” She takes a seat on the flipped mattress, and lowers her head. “Evelyn looked _just_ like this, and didn’t talk about it… and then she—”

“You think I’m gonna end up like her?”

She doesn’t answer, but I find it in the way she’s chewing her quivering lip.

“Don’t worry about it. There are more lives I have to fuck up before flatlining.” One more, to be precise. I have to destroy Chrysanthemum. I have to rip off his head and pin it to the highest pinnacle of Night City, for all to see.

To distract herself, Judy returns to cleaning, glancing worriedly at me every now and then. After she’s done, I help her gather my things and pile them in Max’s bedroom. I’m sure I won’t stay here for long. Being in the mere presence of his scent is making me want to tear the hair off my scalp. But I don’t have the energy to move out right now.

With a sigh, I gingerly take a seat on his bed. I run a hand over the covers, and my eyes well automatically. What am I supposed to do now? How am I going to forgive myself?

After disposing of the mucky water and putting the laundry in the washing machine, Judy reappears and walks up to me.

She unzips her dirty overalls, climbing out of them. "Want me to sleep next to you? Or do you wanna be alone?"

"The latter."

She sighs, but doesn't argue. “Then I’m gonna sleep on the couch tonight, but I'll check on you. You'd better not try to pull some gonk shit." Her eyes soften. "Do you want something to eat? I can order pizza. Avocado and artichoke, right?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I’m there if you need me.” After giving Max’s bedroom one last look—probably checking for any potential weapons I could use to get rid of myself—she walks out.

After a few minutes of silence, dotted with the sound of Judy moving around in the background, Johnny appears. Lines of light dance around him as his hologram steadies.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks sheepishly, avoiding my gaze.

I haven't seen him much since Vik's. He'd fled into the darkest corners of our mind, too afraid to face me, to face the feeling of overwhelming guilt that would remind him of his.

“You have some nerve asking me that after snapping at me.” I’m glad for the opportunity to yell at someone, _anyone_ , without using my voice. It’s only convenient that it’s him.

“Yeah, about that…” He glitches, and one moment later he’s beside me. I don’t move, but I scowl, curling my fingers into fists defensively. “Sorry about that. Didn’t know what to say or what to do. I was… shocked, and it made me say the first stupid thing on my mind, which happened to be that chick.” He nods toward Judy’s general direction. “Was wrong, she’s alright.”

“No shit.”

“Your other friends are alright too. Didn’t… know what I was—”

“Listen, let’s just skip this shit. I know exactly what you wanna say, and I forgive you. I did something a lot worse than take it out on someone because I was in denial.”

“Valerie…”

I shake my head. I know this tone. He’s about to comfort me, to tell me that I didn’t do the most horrendous thing in the entire world, that any other person would’ve done the same because it was almost _too_ obvious.

But I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him to tell me I’m not in the wrong, because I am.

“That’s… not what I wanted to say.”

I pinch my lower lip between my fingers. “What then?”

“You did something bad, sure, but I did too. I was right behind you, but I didn’t tell you to stop.”

I snort. “It’s not your fault, so don’t even try.”

“Coulda done something so easily, but didn’t. Suppose it’s my fault too.”

“I get what you’re trying to do, but it’s not gonna work. You can’t just… divide the blame between us. That’s not how it works. It’s my fault, and only mine. I’m the one who pulled the trigger.”

He sighs heavily. “There must be somethin’ I can do.”

“Got a time machine?”

He smiles sadly. “If I had one, I woulda abused it by now and caused a temporal vortex.”

“Then there’s nothing you can do.”

“You can talk to me, V… if that’s what you want.”

I groan. “You too?”

“Might help. It's a lot better than internalizing shit and havin' it blow up in your face later.”

“Like it helped before, you mean?”

He flinches and opens his mouth, but I stop him with a finger.

“I don’t blame you for that either, so don’t start. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

He says nothing more, but keeps staring at me. Through our link, I hear his thoughts clearly—He would do anything to help me through this, but knows that it’s not that easy, that it has to come from within.

Though, he is within. He’s closer than anyone’s ever been.

“You know, Max didn’t know that much about me…”

Johnny leans forward, eager to hear me talking about the situation at last.

“I didn’t tell him about my first kiss, or that I had a pet coyote I hid from everyone until it ran away, or that I was the one that stole three Christmas presents from under the town’s tree, or that… that I loved him, a lot. I wanted to say it for so long, but was too lost in anger and resentment to do it.” I swallow hard as the fog lifts and reality slowly becomes clear. “I want to tell him how much I appreciate him, that I don’t hate him, that I forgive him, that I’m sorry for not trusting him enough. But… he’s not here anymore, and it’s all my fault.”

Johnny keeps listening, putting a comforting hand on my knee.

“I think he wanted to hear it more than anything. He wanted someone to tell him he’s not a fuckup for once, that his mistakes didn’t murder his soul." I want the same, and it crushes me how similar we were. "He did everything he could to earn my respect, my love, but he didn’t get it.”

“Didn’t he? You just said that you love him.”

“But I never told him, and sometimes that’s all that matters, because the other party might be too jaded to see love beneath the surface.”

Johnny exhales, shifting in his seat. He looks around at the room’s dreary color scheme, a gradient going from midnight black to pale gray. “I didn’t tell my old man I loved him either. Was too much of a proud cunt to say anythin’ I deemed weak. He encouraged me to go to war, but when I came back, he wasn’t proud of what it did to me, of what I became. We never really saw eye-to-eye, he couldn’t understand that I didn’t change for myself, but for the rest of this damn city, thinking I could save it from burnin’. But fuck, he taught me everythin’ I know, and I never thanked him for it.”

I nod, agreeing. “Max taught me strength, he taught me perseverance, he taught me survival, he taught me how to shoot a gun, and how to protect myself from the world’s endless dangers. He was a damn good father, and he’ll always be. I lost my soul because I couldn’t see that.”

“Think I know how we can bring your soul back.”

I slowly look at him, the mere act of turning my head practically impossible in the dark haze of my exhaustion.

“We can accomplish what he set out to do, what _we_ set out to do.”

A feeling seizes me, wrapping around my heart, spreading down to my fingertips. It takes me a while to recognize that it’s not more pain.

It's determination.

“Whenever you’re ready, Valerie.”


End file.
